I     LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

f       SAN  DIEQO 


MY    BOHEMIAN    DAYS 


SIR   HENRY   IRVING. 


BY 

HARRY    FURNISS 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY    THE    AUTHOR 


SECOND    EDITION 


NEW   YORK 

FREDERICK   A.   STOKES   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


PRINTED   IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


CbUfcren 


FRANK  LONDON  SCOTTISH 

LAWRENCE  CANADIAN  ENGINEERS 

GUY   MACKENZIE  ARGYLL  AND  SUTHERLAND 

HIGHLANDERS 

DOROTHY  RED  CROSS  V.A.D. 

FOR    THE    GRAND    SPIRIT    IN    WHICH 

THEY  LOYALLY  "DID  THEIR  BIT" 

IN  THE  GREAT  WAR 

3  fcefcfcate 

THESE   REMINISCENCES  OF  MY  LIFE 
AT   THEIR    AGE 


PREFACE 

THE  Editorial  title  Fifty  Tears  in  Bohemia,  under  which 
the  greater  part  of  this  volume  appeared  recently  in  The 
Evening  News,  was  somewhat  misleading,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  this  book  was  written  twenty-five  years  after 
this  period  of  my  life.  "  Five  and  twenty  years  "  would 
have  been  a  little  nearer  the  case,  "  Ten  years "  still 
better — "  Five  years  " — but  then  we  lived  a  fuller  life, 
whatever  is  said  of  the  crowded  conditions  of  existence 
nowadays. 

The  chapter  on  Irving  and  Tree,  and  others  dealing 
with  theatrical  matters,  appeared  in  The  Strand  Magazine. 

My  other  experiences  of  Bohemia  will  form  another 
story. 

H.  F. 

1919. 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  STRAND  OF  THE  OLD  DAYS 

Charles  Dickens's  sanctum  in  Wellington  Street — "  Billy  "  Russell — 
William  B.  Tegetmeier  and  the  swarm  of  bees — The  actors'  street 
—  The  Bohemians'  publisher  —  "  Augustus  Druriolanus " —  The 
founder  of  The  Illustrated  London  News — His  scapegoat  pp.  i-n 

CHAPTER   II 

SOME     STRAND   FREQUENTERS 

Arthur  Sketchley— "  Racy  Reece  "—Henry  S.  Leigh— Lai  Brough— 
Hubert  de  Burgh — His  Volume  of  Life — Henry  Irving — James 
Anderson — David  James — The  Duke  of  Beaufort  .  pp.  12-25 

CHAPTER  III 

THE    MERRY    "  SEVENTIES  " 

The  Strand  Theatre — Mrs.  Malaprop — Old-time  actors — Barry  Sullivan 
— The  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  gold  mine — The  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil — Satirical  periodicals — The  Octopus — The  Owl — Lord 
Glenesk  as  a  humorist — Torick — Fun  .  .  pp.  26—42 

CHAPTER   IV 

ARTISTS    AND    THEIR    STUDIOS,    THEIR    DEALERS,    AND    THEIR 

MODELS 

The  prosperous  seventies — The  picture  dealer — Shark — Bluff  studios 
in  Bloomsbury — An  artists'  model — "Mr.  Galey  " — A  life  class — 
A  dancing  academy — "  Cramp  "  .  .  .  .  pp.  43—53 


xii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  V 

STUDIO    PARTIES   AND   THE   HOGARTH    CLUB 

Rudyard  Kipling's  parents — Miss  Walton — Rose  Leclercq's  birthplace — 
Studio  parties — Music  and  gloves — Young  Beerbohm  Tree — Edwin 
A.  Abbey — From  eve  till  morn — The  Hogarth  Club — Sir  James  D. 
Linton — Fred  Barnard  and  Henry  Irving — Unlucky  Friday 

PP-  54~65 

CHAPTER  VI 

OLD    TAVERNS   AND    DEBATING   SOCIETIES 

The  old  Albion — A  sketch  on  a  shirt-front — "  Ape  " — Henry  Herman 
— Cabby's  dismay — Frequenters  of  the  Albion — Henry  Sampson — 
Edward  Ledger — "  City  of  Lushington  " — The  old  Cogers — 
"  Budding  lawyers " — In  the  very  old  days — A  practical  joke — A 
"  sporting  "  offer — I  take  the  floor  .  .  .  pp.  66-80 

CHAPTER  VII 

FROM    MY    STUDIO    WINDOW 

Robertsonian  comedies  at  the  "  Dust  Hole  " — Return  to  nature — My 
double — "  Whistler  "  in  the  Circus — "  A  jolly  good  sort  " — Family 
portraits — "  Well  caught  " — George  Grossmith — The  drayman 
and  the  nuts  ...  ....  pp.  81—89 

CHAPTER  VIII 

SOME   ODD    CONTRASTS 

When  all  were  "  boys  " — J.  L.  Toole  and  Seymour  Hicks  at  the  Garrick 
Club — Revolt  from  inaction — Barrie's  caution — "  Old  Bucky  " — 
Tree  and  the  limelight — Jekylls  and  Hydes — Maarten  Maartens 
— A  luxurious  "  shanty  " — Irving's  favourite  supper  pp.  90-100 

CHAPTER  IX 

MERRY    NIGHTS   AMONG   THE    "  SAVAGES  " 

After  five-and-twenty  years — The  "  Busy  Bees  " — The  delinquent 
member  and  the  Committee — A  Royal  Savage — Sir  Somers  Vine — 


CONTENTS  xiii 

George  A.  Henty — His  collapsible  boat — Saturday  evening  enter- 
tainment— Dr.  Farmer  and  Jowett — The  S.O.S.  signal — Crawford 
Wilson — "  Fairy  Fitzgerald  " — Edward  Draper — The  Tinsel-period 
— Jealous  and  du  Maurier — The  Savage  Club  Ball — I  censor 
a  Savage  Queen pp.  101-123 

CHAPTER  X 

WAR    CORRESPONDENTS   AND   SOME   "  SPECIALS  " 

"  Billy  "  Russell,  of  The  Times— Sidney  Hall,  of  The  Graphic— Melton 
Prior  and  Stanley — A  new  "  Lord  High  Executioner  " — Bennett 
Burleigh  outwits  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley — The  Savage  Club  romancer 
— Archibald  Forbes — Fred  Villiers — I  decline  to  become  one — 
"  Jumbo  " — Blowitz — G.  Smalley — Tennyson's  pig — "  The  Bulldog 
of  America"  .  «' pp.  124-142 

CHAPTER  XI 

SOME    MUSICAL    MEMORIES 

Opera  "  gods  " — "  A  'norrible  tale  !  " — Foli  and  Foley — Emily  Soldene 
in  The  Grand  Duchess — Sir  James  O'Dowd — Patti — A  triumph 
of  song — Ragging  a  singer — "  Teddy  "  Solomon  and  Sullivan 

pp.  143-153 

CHAPTER  XII 

UPPER-CLASS    BOHEMIA 

The  Amphitryon — Colonel  North  as  Falstaff — A  dear  u  snack  " — Lord 
Chaplin — Ten-shilling  cigars — The  Beefsteak  Club — "  Ape  "  and 
Lord  Beaconsfield — Earl  of  Kilmorey  .  .  .  pp.  154-161 

CHAPTER  XIII 

SOME      NOTABLE      "  FIRST    NIGHTS  "      AND      OTHER      THINGS 

THEATRICAL 

Two  houses  a  night — Macbeth — Public  and  private  performance — 
Signer  Salvini — Trelazvny  of  the  Wells — Toole  and  the  nuts — "  An 
overgrown  Cupid  " — The  Colonel — My  huge  poster — An  elaborate 


xiv  CONTENTS 

practical  joke — Anne  Mie — The  Alhambra  laundry — Jacobi — Miss 
Terry  in  The  Cup — Irving  as  lago — Cutting  the  Baddeley  Cake 

pp.  162-186 

CHAPTER  XIV 

SIR    HENRY    IRVING 

Irving  as  a  model — Art  and  the  Drama — Don  Quixote — His  horse  and 
what  came  of  it — Dressing-bag  Thompson — Appreciation — Imita- 
tions of  Irving — A  practical  joker — Mr.  Gladstone  at  the  Lyceum — 
Buckstone  .  .  .  .  ,  .  .  pp.  187-207 


CHAPTER  XV 

SIR    HERBERT    BEERBOHM    TREE'S    HUMOUR 

Tree  and  Irving — Henry  VIII  surprises  Wolsey — Tree  and  his  taxi — 
He  offers  me  an  engagement — His  bans  mots — The  Ambassador 
from  Java — Tree  and  the  critic — Tree  and  Sir  Hall  Caine 

pp.  208-215 

CHAPTER  XVI 

SOME   UNREHEARSED   STAGE   EFFECTS 

Misther  Levy — Our  Flat — Mr.  Kendal's  trousers — Leah's  dilemma — The 
"star-trap" — Mr.  Gladstone  on  the  stage — Miss  Mary  Anderson's 
pose — Mrs.  Kendal  in  "  Pantomime  " — Toole's  dresser — The  two 
Berthas pp.  216-231 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ART   ON   THE   STAGE 

A  blank  canvas — Peg  Woffington — The  "  Divine  Sarah,"  sculptor — Tree's 
match — Alexander's  hand — Miss  Terry's  gown — Neville's  ribbon — 
Falstaff's  boot — Nance  Oldfield's  coffee  .  .  pp.  232-244 


CONTENTS  xv 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

BOHEMIANS   IN    PARLIAMENT 

Young  Disraeli,  dramatist — Authors  in  the  Commons — The  Dogman 
and  the  Grand  Old  Man — Dr.  Wallace's  entertainment — Lays  of 
Parliament — T.  H.  Bolton  and  the  Theatre — Dr.  Kenealy — Henni- 
ker  Heaton — Charles  Bradlaugh — H.H.H. — Sketches — A  Photo- 
grapher— "  Chalk  Talks  " — Labouchere  and  the  Ladies  pp.  245-263 

CHAPTER  XIX 

SOME    PARLIAMENTARY    OFFICIALS   AND    SOME    NOBLE    LORDS 

Some  Speakers— Captain  Gossett— The  "  Black  Beetle  "—The  Chaplain 
— The  Rev.  F.  E.  C.  Byng — Dr.  Percy — Some  Lord  Chancellors — 
Sir  William  Harcourt — The  Black  Rod — Lord  Clanricarde — Lord 
Courtney — Lord  Dunraven .  .  .  .  pp.  264—273 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE   PRESS    GALLERY 

The  old  days — Bohemian  members — Work  under  difficulties — Mr.  Paul 
—  Sir  Edward  Russell  —  Inaccuracies  —  "  Cookin'  porpoises  " — 
Speeches  reported — "  By  courtesy  " — I  am  "  named  " — Au  revoir 

pp.  274-286 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

SIR  HENRY  IRVING    .  ....          Frontispiece 

PASB 

WILLIAM  B.  TEGETMEIER       .         .         .         .         .         .         3 

SIR  AUGUSTUS  HARRIS  ...,"••         7 

THOMAS  PURNELL          .         .         .         .         ,         .         .10 

ARTHUR  SKETCHLEY      .         .         .         .         .         .         .       13 

ROBERT  REECE  AND  HENRY  S.  LEIGH  ...       15 

"  LAL "  BROUGH  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .       16 

HUBERT  DE  BURGH       .         .         .  .         .  17 

IRVING  AS  "  DIGBY  GRANT  "  IN  "  THE  Two  ROSES  "      .       19 
"  I  MADE  IRVING  "        .         .         .         .         .         .         .21 

DAVID  JAMES  AND  THE  DUKE  .         .         .         .24 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  TRAGEDIAN'S  EYE  .         ..        .       29 

"THE  WORLD,  THE  FLESH  AND  THE  DEVIL"          .         .       31 

"THE  OCTOPUS" V.      .       33 

LORD  GLENESK     ........       35 

IRVING  AS  KING  LEAR  .         .         .         .         ,         .       37 

RICHARD  DOWLING  AS  POE  ......       41 

WILLIAM  BRUNTON  AND  HIS  "  TRADE  MARK  "        .         .42 
CHARLES  BURTON  BARBER  AND  THE  DEALER  .         .       45 

A  MODEI 47 

"  SILENCE  FOLLOWED.     I  EYED  HER  UP  AND  DOWN  "     .       49 
G.  A.  STOREY  SINGING  "MR.  GALEY  "  .         .         .         .51 

Miss  WALTON       .         .••*'.         .  .         •       55 

SIR  BEERBOHM  TREE  IN  HIS  YOUTH       .          .         .         •       57 
TREE  IMITATING  JAMES  AND  THORNE     ....       58 

E.  A.  ABBEY  IN  A  BONNET  ......       60 

SIR  JAMES  D.  LINTON  IN  HIS  EARLY  DAYS  61 

b  xvii 


xvlii  LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACE 


BARNARD  BURLESQUING  IRVING     .....  63 

CARLO  PELLEGRINI,  "  APE  "  OF  "  VANITY  FAIR  "   .         .67 

APE'S  SKETCH  ON  A  SHIRT-FRONT           ....  68 

"  AND  NOW  SEE  YOU'VE  DONE  IT  "       .         .         .         .69 

CHARLES  WARNER  ORDERING  HIS  SUPPER       ...  72 
EDMUND  KEAN'S  TABLET  AND  MASK  IN  THE  "  CITY  OF 

LUSHINGTON  ".......  JA 

COGERS         .         .         .         .         .         .         ....  75 

COGERS  SKETCHED  BY  SlR  FRANK  LoCKWOOD       ,.  .  , ;     ,.  77 

A  COGER  MAKING  A  SPEECH           .         .         .      ,  *  78 

THE  BOARD-MAN  ........  79 

TOM  ROBERTSON  ........  83 

"  WHISTLER  "  ON  THE  TIGHT-ROPE          ....  84 

MR.  SIDNEY  BANCROFT          ......  85 

GEORGE  GROSSMITH       .......  88 

J.  L.  TOOLE  AND  SEYMOUR  HICKS          ....  91 

THE  MODERN  ACTOR'S  ENGAGEMENTS     ....  93 

J.  B.  BUCKSTONE          .......  95 

SKETCHING  IN  NORMANDY     ......  97 

MAARTEN  MAARTENS     .......  99 

I  TAKE  THE  CHAIR  AT  THE  SAVAGE  CLUB       .          .          .  IOI 

ALDERMAN  TRELOAR     .......  102 

MY  DESIGN  FOR  THE  SAVAGE  CLUB  COSTUME  BALL         .  105 

A  BOHEMIAN  WHO  DEFIED  THE  COMMITTEE     .          .         .  106 

SIR  SOMERS  VINE          .......  107 

GEORGE  A.  HENTY        .......  109 

J.  B.  FIRTH no 

WHEN  GROSSMITH  FAILED  TO  GET  A  LAUGH             .  in 
DR.  FARMER  AND  THE  MASTER  OF  BALLIOL   .         .         .113 

CRAWFORD  WILSON        .         .         .         .         .         .  115 

J.  A.  FITZGERALD  AS  FITZGERALD           .         .         .  117 
A  POPULAR  SAVAGE      .         .         .         .         .         .         .118 

JEALOUS  AND  DU  MAURIER    .         .         .         .         .         .120 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS  xix 

FACE 

TEGETMEIER  AS  A  JAPANESE  .....     123 

DR.  SIR  WILLIAM  RUSSELL — " BILLY  RUSSELL"  OF  "THE 

TIMES  "  IN  HIS  LATTER  DAYS          .         .         .         .125 

MELTON  PRIOR      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .128 

SIR  HENRY  M.  STANLEY        .          .         .         .         .         .129 

ARCHIBALD  FORBES  HAS  'EM  ALL  ON  !    .         .         .  133 

"I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  ONE  MYSELF  "     .         .         .         •     135 
JUMBO  .         .        *•         .         .         .         .         .         .136 

HENRI     GEORGES     STEPHANE     ADOLPHE     OPPER     DE 

BLOWITZ         .         .        ..         .         .         .         .          .139 

G.  SMALLEY          ,  • .      .         .         .         .         .         .         .     141 

THE  "  GODS  "      ,.         ^         ..         ;         .         .         .         .     145 

Miss  EMILY  SOLDENE  ........     147 

SIR  JAMES  O'Dowo,  A  FRIEND  OF  THACKERAY       .         .     148 
WAS  IT  A  JOKE  ?          .^        .;•.:.         .         .         .     151 

COLONEL  NORTH  AS  FALSTAFF        .         .         .         .  155 

LORD  CHAPLIN      .  .         .         .         .         .         .157 

"APE"  CATCHING  THE  LAST  OF  BEACONSFIELD      .          -159 
THE  EARL  OF  KILMOREY       ......     161 

SEEING  TWO  PLAYS  IN  ONE  EVENING     ....     163 

IRVING  RECITES  MACBETH     ....         .         .         .     164 

IRVING  AS  MACBETH     ,         »         .         .         .         .         .     165 

SALVINI        .         ?  '     '*         •         •         •         •         •         •     l&7 

SIR  AUGUSTUS  HARRIS  AS  A  CUPID        ....     169 

MY  POSTER  FOR  "  THE  COLONEL  "  172 

EDGAR  BRUCE  STUDYING  RUSSIAN          ....     175 

"  ANNE  MIE  FALLS  A  LITTLE  FLAT  "  .          .          .      177 

JACOBI          .........     179 

IRVING  AS  IAGO    ........     181 

IRVING  AS  OTHELLO      .......     182 

IRVING  AS  HAMLET        ...»..,     193 
IRVING  AS  DON  QUIXOTE       ......     195 

IRVING  IN  "  THE  CORSICAN  BROTHERS  "...     203 


xx  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


MR.  GLADSTONE  AS  A  SUPER          .....  205 

"  THANK  YOU,  LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN,  FIRST  PERFORM- 
ANCE— THANK  You!"    .         .         ...         .  211 

A  STUDY  OF  TREE  IN  AMERICA     .....  217 

SIR  BEERBOHM  TREE    .          .          .          .V.          .  219 

"  THEM'S  CLOTHES  "      .          .          .          •         .       '  l.          .  222 

PERDITA'S  PREDICAMENT        .          .                   .         .         .  226 

TOOLE  AS  THE  ARTFUL  DODGER    .....  228 

A  CRISIS  IN  TOOLE'S  PERFORMANCE  OF  "  THE  CRICKET 

ON  THE  HEARTH  "            .         „         „          .          .          .  231 

*'  THE  CANVAS  WAS  DISCOVERED  TO  BE  PERFECTLY  BLANK  "  234. 

"THE  DIVINE  SARAH"          .         «         ,         .         .         .  236 

FALSTAFF'S  OTHER  BOOT        .         .         »         .         .         .  243 

YOUNG  DISRAELI  AS  A  DRAMATIST          ....  246 

WILLIAM  WOODALL'S  GUESTS  IN  THE  HOUSE           .         .  250 
FARMER  ATKINSON         .         .         .         .'.'.'".         .251 

BOLTON  AND  HIS  THEATRICAL  CLIENTS  ....  254. 

LORD  HENRY  LENNOX            .          .          .          j         .          .  255 

"  OLD  DADDY  LONGLEGS  WOULDN'T  SAY  HIS  PRAYERS  "  257 

BRADLAUGH  FLUNG  INTO  THE  PALACE  YARD            .         .  258 

"H.  H.  H."         .         .         .         »         .      '•:..         .         .  259 

SIR  BENJAMIN  STONE             ,         »         v  261 

BEARDED  SPEAKERS      .          .          .          .         •         4          .  265 

THE  BLACK  BEETLE      .......  266 

THE  CHAPLAIN  TO  THE  HOUSE       .....  267 

SHOWING  HOW  I  SKETCH  IN  MY  POCKET         ...  270 

LORD  CLANRICARDE,  AN  ODD  FISH         ....  271 

LORD  COURTNEY  ......         j  272 

MR.  HAROLD  Cox          .......  276 

A  CORNER  OF  THE  PRESS  GALLERY        ....  277 

MR.  HERBERT  PAUL  280 


MY    BOHEMIAN    DAYS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   STRAND    OF   THE    OLD    DAYS 

Charles  Dickens's  sanctum  in  Wellington  Street — "Billy"  Russell- 
William  B.  Tegetmeier  and  the  swarm  of  bees — The  actors'  street 
— The  Bohemians'  publisher  —  "Augustus  Druriolanus" — The 
founder  of  The  Illustrated  London  News — His  scapegoat. 

WHEN  I  first  made  its  acquaintance  London's  Bohemia 
consisted  of  a  ramshackle,  picturesque,  and  historically 
interesting  jumble  of  famous  old  streets,  narrow  passages, 
"  inns,"  square  taverns,  and  publishing  shops.  In  this 
interesting  quarter  jostled  together  vice  and  virtue, 
intellect  and  ignorance,  poverty  and  opulence. 

In  this  Alsatia  dwelt  "  characters "  both  eccentric 
and  clever,  and,  if  not  inspiring,  they  were  at  least  artistic. 
The  very  pavements  reeked  with  tobacco  from  the 
calumets  of  semi-savages,  combined  with  the  onions 
accompanying  the  chops  and  steaks  which  were  carried 
from  the  cook-shop  to  the  office  of  the  wealthy  banker 
or  the  establishment  of  the  well-to-do  tradesman. 

All  these  odoriferous  rookeries  have  been  razed  to  the 
ground,  and  upon  their  site  have  arisen  stately  and 
imposing  edifices  in  which  are  to  be  found  the  offices 
of  the  Marconi  Company,  colonial  agencies,  banks,  etc., 
together  with  palatial  newspaper  and  other  offices.  In 


2  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

such  an  environment  it  is  impossible  that  Bohemianism 
could  ever  exist.  It  would  be  a  gross  anachronism. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  death  of  Bohemianism  is  really 
due  more  to  the  genius  of  the  architect  than  to  any 
vagaries  of  fashion  or  fortune. 

In  Wellington  Street,  adjoining  and,  in  fact,  forming 
part  of  the  old  Gaiety  Theatre,  stood  a  charming  little 
building  with  bow  windows.  In  my  youthful  days  it 
formed  the  office  of  The  Army  and  Navy  Gazette,  the 
editor  and  part  proprietor  being  Sir  William,  otherwise 
"  Billy,"  Russell,  the  famous  war  correspondent  of  The 
Times,  who,  dull  as  his  paper  was,  no  doubt  kept  alive 
the  light-hearted  humour  which  pervaded  the  atmo- 
sphere of  the  pretty  little  editorial  room,  since  it  was 
for  nine  years  the  sanctum  of  no  less  a  celebrity  than  the 
late  Charles  Dickens  himself. 

Here  the  great  novelist  laboured  strenuously  to  nurse 
into  a  success  his  weekly  paper  Household  Words,  which, 
when  "  Billy "  Russell  made  his  name  as  a  war  corre- 
spondent in  the  Crimea,  was  exactly  four  years  old. 
Dickens,  like  in  after  years  my  friend  Irving  at  the  Lyceum 
over  the  way,  made  his  business  office  a  rendezvous  for 
his  friends,  entertaining  them  with  little  luncheons  in 
the  midst  of  work  and  bright  suppers  after  the  theatre. 
When  George  Edwardes  was  visibly  swelling  into  affluence 
as  a  manager  the  journal  of  Red  Tape  was  obliged  to 
move  out  in  order  to  allow  more  dressing  room  for  the 
beauties  of  the  Gaiety  burlesque. 

In  the  old  days  I  recollect  making  a  sketch  for  The 
Illustrated  London  News  of  a  curious  scene  outside  that 
quaint  bow  window.  A  crowd  had  gathered  to  watch 
a  swarm  of  bees  which  had  settled  on  the  ledge  of  the 
window.  Someone — it  may  possibly  have  been  myself 


WILLIAM   B.    TEGETMEIER 

3 


4  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

— happily  bethought  himself  of  that  dear  old  Bohemian 
Tegetmeier  of  The  Field  newspaper,  the  offices  of  which 
were  luckily  located  close  to  the  spot.  He  was  brought 
upon  the  scene  and  a  ladder  obtained,  and  with  the  aid 
of  a  hearth  broom  he  adroitly  managed  to  capture  the 
entire  swarm  intact. 

This  spare,  alert  figure  of  the  celebrated  nonagenarian 
was  for  years  perhaps  as  familiar  a  figure  as  any  daily 
treading  the  pavements  of  the  Strand.  William  B. 
Tegetmeier  was  one  of  those  wiry,  thin  little  men  who 
never  seem  to  age ;  he  was  only  robbed  of  his  century 
by  three  years.  In  his  long  life  he  had  been  doctor, 
naturalist,  journalist,  but,  above  all,  a  Bohemian,  the 
friend  of  Darwin  and  Russell,  and  a  helper  with  that 
extraordinary  work  on  the  "  Origin  of  Species."  He 
was  best  known  to  the  public  as  a  great  authoiity  on 
pigeons,  and  best  known  to  his  friends  in  the  precincts 
of  the  Savage  Club,  which  he  helped  to  found.  When 
I  first  met  Tegetmeier  it  was  in  the  Savage  Club,  then 
situated  in  the  Strand  ;  in  fact,  you  pushed  open  a  door 
and  found  yourself  in  the  club,  there  being  no  hall  or 
entrance  but  the  door  into  the  street. 

In  this  sidelight  of  Bohemia  that  evening  I  heard 
old  George  Grossmith,  grandfather  of  the  present  George 
Grossmith,  deliver  one  of  his  inimitable  mock  scientific 
lectures  after  dinner.  Irving  was  there — before  running 
round  to  the  Lyceum  where  he  had  just  been  engaged 
at  a  moderate  salary  by  Colonel  Bateman — Charles 
(later  Sir  Charles)  Wyndham,  and  many  other  actors 
who  became  famous  and  of  whom,  alas !  many  have 
ceased  to  strut  their  brief  hour  on  the  stage. 

For  some  reason  I  was  more  struck  by  Tegetmeier 
than  by  any  other  member.  Perhaps  he  was  kind  to 


THE  STRAND  OF  THE  OLD  DAYS     5 

me  as  a  visitor  and  a  mere  youth — anyway  we  struck 
up  an  acquaintance  which  lasted  for  many  years.  He 
was  not  only  Bohemian  in  living,  but  in  attire — a  black 
slouch  hat,  a  short  waterproof  cape,  and  a  shabby  port- 
folio under  his  arm.  I  recollect  his  calling  to  see  me 
one  day,  and  being  immensely  amused  by  the  maid 
who  answered  the  bell  informing  him  that  "  Master 
did  not  require  any  models,"  and  slamming  the  door 
in  his  face.  Tegetmeier  never  smoked  or  drank  and 
seldom  ate — thus  his  youth. 

The  demolition  of  Catherine  Street  marked,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  say  so,  the  disappearance  of  half  the  London 
Bohemians  of  literary  pretensions. 

The  Era — the  "  Actors'  Bible  " — in  its  palmy  days 
was  the  means  of  bringing  crowds  of  the  profession  to 
the  street,  which,  according  to  Halliday,  was  then 
devoted  (before  my  time)  to  second-class  eating-houses 
and  the  shops  of  newsvendors  and  advertising  agents. 
The  street  had  not  changed  its  character  in  any  particular 
when  the  exigencies  of  my  profession  compelled  me  to 
become  an  habitue,  for  it  also  contained  various  offices 
belonging  to  publishers  who  would,  perhaps,  be  deemed 
second-class.  The  most  notable  figure  among  these 
was  that  of  Tinsley,  and  Tinsley,  familiarly  known  as 
"  Bill,"  was  facile  princeps  the  Bohemians'  publisher  in 
those  far-away  days. 

When  I  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  big  city 
I  was  a  constant  frequenter,  not  only  of  the  Gaiety 
Theatre,  but  also  of  the  restaurant  in  the  basement. 

"  The  Gaiety  Bar "  was  in  those  days,  practically 
speaking,  the  literary  and  artistic  Bohemians'  club. 
Before  my  eyes  now  I  imagine  I  can  see  the  familiar 
figure  of  Gus  Harris,  with  the  glossiest  of  silk  hats  worn 


6  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

at  a  perilous  angle  on  one  side  of  his  head,  his  florid 
complexion,  sparkling  eyes,  and  the  smile  of  self-satis- 
faction that  is  the  heritage  of  the  successful  few !  I  can 
see  him  now,  as  was  his  wont,  strutting  up  and  down 
the  Gaiety  Bar,  attired  in  immaculate  evening  dress 
with  the  then  fashionable  Inverness  cape  thrown  over 
one  shoulder. 

It  was  this  familiar  personality  that  was  so  cleverly 
portrayed  by  Willie  Edouin  in  that  wonderfully  success- 
ful farce  Our  Flat,  at  the  old  Strand  Theatre. 

11  Augustus  Druriolanus "  was  a  shrewd,  long-sighted, 
long-headed  genius.  He  was  essentially  plucky,  and  for 
this  quality,  and  for  playing  the  game  like  a  sportsman, 
he  always  commanded  my  sincere  admiration.  Even  a 
more  familiar  figure  than  Harris's,  however,  was  that  of 
John  Hollingshead,  manager  of  the  Gaiety,  who  with 
excellent  reason  prided  himself  upon  keeping  the  sacred 
lamp  of  burlesque  burning  brightly  for  so  many  years. 

Directly  facing  the  old  Gaiety  were  the  offices  of 
Gaze,  of  tourist  fame.  Over  these  there  existed  a  typi- 
cally Bohemian  club.  This  was  my  first  club  in  London, 
started  simultaneously  and  I  believe  actually  by  the 
influence  of  the  proprietors  of  The  Illustrated  Sporting 
and  Dramatic  News.  For  a  year  after  my  arrival  in 
London  I  was  marked  for  a  contributor  to  that  journal, 
and  to  locate  my  editor  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  join 
that  club  and  also  frequent  the  Gaiety  Bar. 

What  first  led  me  to  the  Strand  was  to  call  at  the 
office  of  The  Illustrated  London  News  with  my  sketches. 
The  paper  was  then  run  in  the  interests  of  the  widow 
of  the  first  proprietor  by  a  few  directors. 

Ingram,  the  founder  of  The  Illustrated  London  News 
and  pioneer  of  illustrated  journalism,  must  have  been 


THE  STRAND  OF  THE  OLD  DAYS     7 

a  remarkable  man  of  a  strong  and  impetuous  nature. 
I  have  been  told  stories  of  his  impetuosity,  which  I 
have  no  doubt  were  characteristic  of  him,  but  in  all 


SIR  AUGUSTUS   HARRIS. 


probability  untrue.  One  was  that  whenever  he  was 
worked  up  to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement,  or  in  anger, 
it  was  his  habit  to  rush  up  to  the  compositors'  room 
and  seize  a  particularly  chubby,  unaggressive  "  comp.," 
who  was  always  ready  and  not  unwilling  to  be  the  recipient 


8  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

of  other  men's  punishment.  The  Guv'nor  having  worked 
off  his  pent-up  passion  by  kicking  this  selected  scapegoat, 
would  immediately  empty  his  pockets  of  their  contents 
as  compensation  for  this  assault  and  battery.  The 
compositor  was  thus  kicked  into  prosperity.  He  retired 
in  time  from  business,  having  picked  up  sufficient  to 
build  a  row  of  cottages  with  the  money. 

Another  story.  An  artist  was  sent  to  China  to  supply 
sketches  to  The  Illustrated  London  News.  The  agree- 
ment was  to  the  effect  that  this  artist  was  to  receive 
a  certain  sum  per  week  so  long  as  he  made  sketches  in 
China  for  the  paper.  In  those  days  there  was  no  tele- 
graph, and  it  was  some  time  before  the  young  man 
could  be  informed  that  the  proprietor  had  had  enough 
of  his  sketches,  interest  in  China  having  ceased,  and  that 
he  was  to  return.  The  artist  knew  better.  He  replied 
that  he  had  married,  settled  down  there,  and  would 
continue  to  send  sketches.  In  the  agreement  there 
was  no  limit  of  time.  I  think  this  story  is  true,  for  a 
friend  of  mine  met  the  artist  in  far  Cathay,  "  an  old 
man  with  a  long  white  beard,  a  large  family,  and  an  agree- 
ment with  The  Illustrated  London  News" 

This  remarkable  man,  Ingram,  had  died — drowned 
in  Lake  Michigan — some  time  before  I  knew  the  office. 
The  affairs  of  the  paper  were  then  in  the  hands  of  the 
widow,  Mr.  Leighton,  the  printer,  Mason  Jackson,  the 
art  editor,  and  Mr.  S.  Reid,  the  artist.  The  latter  was, 
facile  princeps,  the  sketcher  of  streets,  old  buildings, 
cathedrals,  and  country  houses.  Who  does  not  remem- 
ber his  "  Haunted  House,"  "  The  Hall,  Chris tmastide," 
and  other  effective  drawings  in  The  Illustrated  London 
News  ?  Mr.  Reid  looked  like  a  keen  Scotch  commercial 
traveller,  invariably  carrying  a  black  bag. 


THE  STRAND  OF  THE  OLD  DAYS     9 

Thursday  was  the  day  set  aside  by  the  Art  Editor 
to  see  contributors.  I  well  recollect  those  Thursday 
gatherings.  To  use  the  familiar  editorial  term,  the 
week's  paper  had  been  "  put  to  bed,"  albeit  anything 
but  a  "  bed  "  of  rest,  for  one  heard  the  groaning,  clashing, 
heated  rolling  machinery  upon  which  bed  the  paper  was, 
waiting  one's  turn.  There  was  difficulty  in  hearing 
the  lively  chatter  of  those  calling  upon  the  Editor  by 
appointment  for  work  for  the  following  number. 

I  recall  a  little  man — a  very  little  man — with  a  very 
long  white  beard  resembling  the  typical  Father  Christ- 
mas cut  off  at  the  knees ;  he  has  a  cheery,  red  face,  a 
pleasant  smile  and  a  twinkling  eye.  This  is  the  engraver 
of  animal  pictures.  He  has  a  friendly  chat  with  me. 
I  was  but  a  boy,  and  he  well  in  the  autumn  of  life.  He 
tells  me  of  the  old  days,  and  I  drink  in  all  the  incidents 
he  informs  me  of  anent  the  starting  of  Punch,  of  an  uncle 
of  mine,  a  publisher  in  Wine  Office  Court,  where  the 
Punch  staff  first  met.  He  also  tells  me  of  his  own 
daughter  who  is  just  starting  as  an  artist. 

Out  of  a  parcel  he  takes  her  dainty  sketches,  and 
I  admire  them,  for  they  were  then  just  the  same  as  they 
were  when  she  became  world-famous.  Her  Christian 
name  was  Kate  and  her  surname  Greenaway ! 

Thomas  Purnell,  leader  writer  on  the  Globe,  was  a 
familiar  and  most  picturesque  figure  treading  the  Strand 
pavements  when  I  was  young.  I  believe  I  am  right 
in  saying  that  brilliant  Welshman  was  at  one  time  a 
driver  of  a  coach  in  his  native  country,  a  self-made  man. 
He  had  a  very  refined,  almost  Quixotic  face,  a  long, 
lanky  figure,  flowing  beard,  and  eyes  that  saw  further 
than  most  people's. 

I  was  looking  over  some  writings  of  my  old  friend 


THOMAS    PURNRL1. 
10 


THE  STRAND  OF  THE  OLD  DAYS     n 

Joseph  Hatton  the  other  day  and  came  across  an 
extraordinary  illustration  of  Purnell's  long-sightedness. 
Hatton  was  a  great  friend  of  "  Tom "  Purnell's,  and 
once  made  a  tour  (about  thirty  years  ago)  in  Holland 
with  Purnell.  It  appears  that  Purnell  was  a  passionate 
lover  of  Holland,  "  which,  in  his  estimation,  was  the 
Naboth's  vineyard  of  the  Dutchman's  envious  neighbour 
Germany."  This  excitable  Welshman,  Purnell,  de- 
livered himself  of  a  patriotic  defiance  of  Germany  on 
the  occasion,  and,  adds  Hatton,  "  pointed  with  a  long, 
artistic  finger  the  way  the  German  legions  would 
come.  This  done  he  triumphantly  turned  towards  the 
sea  to  describe  the  British  ships  that  would  have  landed 
bluejackets  to  the  aid  of  Amsterdam  and  Rotterdam, 
to  say  nothing  of  their  neighbour  Antwerp,  who  would 
be  in  no  less  peril  of  her  ships  and  her  liberties.  My 
experience  of  the  Germans  at  home  does  not  lead  me 
to  think  that  as  a  people  they  for  a  moment  would  dream 
of  any  such  outrages  as  these  and  other  startling  forecasts 
suggest.  But  his  Imperial  Majesty  William  II  is  governed 
by  a  tremendous  ambition,  and  England  may  no  longer 
place  implicit  faith  in  his  demonstrations  of  friendship." 
These  sentiments  of  two  Strand  literary  men  of  years 
ago  are  certainly  curious  reading  to-day. 


CHAPTER  II 

SOME   STRAND   FREQUENTERS 

Arthur  Sketchley — "  Racy  Reece  " — Henry  S.  Leigh — Lai  Brough — 
Hubert  de  Burgh — His  Volume  of  Life — Henry  Irving — James 
Anderson — David  James — The  Duke  of  Beaufort 

Two  of  the  stoutest  men,  probably,  who  ever  trod  the 
Strand  were  in  other  ways  conspicuous  figures  in  the  old 
days.  One  was  Arthur  Sketchley,  who  for  a  time  had 
quite  a  big  success  with  his  books,  Mr s.  Brown  at  the  Play, 
Mrs.  Brown  at  Margate.  Mrs.  Brown — well,  was  his  peg 
upon  which  to  hang  a  somewhat  indifferent  imitation 
of  Sairy  Gamp  on  every  conceivable  subject.  Sketchley 
gave  "  Readings "  from  his  Mrs.  Brown  series  at  the 
Strand  Theatre.  The  other  stout  man  was  a  lecturer 
on  sanitary  and  other  matters,  Joseph  Pope,  familiarly 
known  as  "  Jope " ;  his  brother,  another  alarmingly 
stout  man,  was  Pope,  Q.C.,  at  one  time  leader  of  the 
Parliamentary  Bar.  These  two  FalstafHan  Strand  fre- 
quenters were  one  day  seen  to  enter  an  ordinary  four- 
wheeler — it  is  a  fact  they  did — and  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
bottom  came  out  of  the  cab  ! 

A  member  of  the  Savage  Club  witnessed  the  strange 
event  and  hastened  to  the  club  ;  he  was  much  sought 
for  by  disbelieving  members  and  feted.  In  the  end  the 
poor  fellow  had  to  be  sent  home  in  a  cab  himself. 


12 


SOME  STRAND  FREQUENTERS  13 

Another  frequenter  of    the  Strand  in  its  Bohemian 
days  was  Robert  Reece,  known  as  "  Racy  Reece,"  apropos 


ARTHUR  SKETCHLEY. 


I  suppose  of  the  facility  of  his  pen,  for  he  wrote  burlesques 
and  verse,  and  in  fact  anything  required,  by  the   yard 


14  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

at  high  pressure.  He  was  of  the  punning  fraternity, 
but  he  was  also  a  captious  critic  of  the  critics,  and  the 
Strand  in  his  days  was  the  critic's  School  for  Scandal. 

This  is  Recce's  opinion  of  them.  I  quote  from  the 
opening  of  his  screed  on  critics  by  whom  he  had  suffered  : 

You  know  me  f     I  live  by  my  pen, 

In  anonymous  courage  not  lacking. 
I  thrive  on  the  murder  of  men 

Whose  boots  I'm  not  worthy  of  blacking. 
I  live  in  a  vapour  that  seems 

Half  brandy,  half  something  mephitic. 
I'm  drunkenness  dealing  in  dreams — 

Ibafs  it !  yes !  you're  right !  I'm  a  Critic ! 

Henry  S.  Leigh  was  a  genius  of  a  kind,  who  lived  his 
life  in  the  Strand.  He  was  a  very  neat  versifier — any 
one  who  has  read  his  Carols  of  Cockayne  must  appreciate 
that;  but  his  ambition  was  to  have  the  admiration  of 
the  Strand.  It  was  his  world,  and  he  was  little  known 
outside  it ;  now  and  then  he  dropped  into  the  Savage 
Club  and  warbled  one  of  his  clever  carols,  sitting  with 
his  overcoat  on  as  he  accompanied  himself  on  the  piano 
— ready  to  continue  his  hourly  pilgrimage  in  the  Strand. 
He  was  the  son  of  Leigh  whose  famous  school  of  art 
Thackeray  immortalised  as  "  Gandish  "  in  The  Newcomes 
in  a  composite  character  portrait  of  Sass  and  Leigh. 

A  well-known  comedian  who  was  for  a  time  at  the 
Gaiety  Theatre  and  at  all  times  the  wit  of  the  Strand, 
Lai  Brough,  one  of  the  famous  Brothers  Brough,  dramatic 
authors,  was  originally  connected  with  The  Illustrated 
London  News.  Lionel  Brough  was  an  excellent  racon- 
teur ;  he  imitated  the  Cockney,  the  Yorkshireman,  the 
Scot,  Yankee,  and  Irishman  with  marvellous  truthfulness ; 
and  no  matter  how  busy  one  might  be,  or  how  much 


SOME  STRAND  FREQUENTERS  15 

in  a  hurry,  Brough  would  never  let  you  pass  him  in  the 
Strand  without  telling  you  his  latest  story.  In  this  way 
his  stories  became  public  property,  and  have  long  since 
been  put  on  the  shelf  labelled  "  chestnuts." 


ROBERT   REECE   AND   HENRY   S.   LEIGH. 

Pantomime  writers  seemingly  found  inspiration  in 
the  conglomeration  of  humanity  frequenting  the  Strand. 
One  of  these  suppliers  of  pantomimes  was  Charles  Mill- 
ward  ;  he  was  also  a  journalist,  inasmuch  as  he  provided 
a  London  Letter  to  country  papers,  his  London  being 


i6 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


the   Strand.     In   private  life  he  was   a   mural  mason  ! 

He  was  a  sallow-faced,  serious,  black-bearded,  depressing 

individual,  of  whom 
H.  J.  Byron,  the  great 
wit  of  the  Strand, 
observed :  "  I  have 
just  met  Millward : 
he  looked  as  proud  as 
a  corpse  with  two 
tombstones." 

By  the  way  this  re- 
mark reminds  me  that 
once,  and  I  believe 
once  only,  the  curtain 
was  rung  up  on  a  new 
play  and  rung  down 
again  without  a  word 
being  spoken  —  I  do 
not  mean  a  UEnfant 
Prodigue  kind  of  play, 
but  a  serious  play  in 
three  written  acts. 
The  fact  is  it  was  too 
serious.  When  the 
curtain  went  up  a 
couple  of  mutes  were 
"  discovered"  standing 
at  either  side  of  the 
door  of  a  house,  the 
supposition  being  that 

there  was  a  corpse  in  it.    The  play  was  the  corpse,  for 

the  audience  was  so  indignant  not  a  word  was  spoken ! 

This  was  at  the  Old  Globe  Theatre  in  the  Strand. 


"LAL"  BROUGH. 


SOME  STRAND   FREQUENTERS  17 

One  of  the  most  interesting  literary  men  I  met  at 
the  offices  of  a  paper  in  the  Strand  in  my  early  days 
in  London  was  Hubert  de  Burgh,  a  gentlemanly,  tall, 


HUBERT   DE  BURGH. 


good-looking  fellow,  the  son  of  Colonel  de  Burgh,  a  father 
he  was  proud  of,  not  so  much  for  his  successes  in  the 
battlefields — indeed,  I  cannot  recall  his  even  mentioning 
his  father's  feats  at  arms — but  I  well  remember  his 
admiration  for  his  father's  success  as  a  military  after- 


18  MY  BOHEMIAN   DAYS 

dinner  speaker.  I  think  young  de  Burgh  edited  and 
published  his  father's  post-prandial  martial  orations. 

De  Burgh  himself  was  a  poet  and  wrote  for  various 
periodicals.  He  lived  for  a  time  in  the  same  house  as 
another  poet,  better  known  to  the  world,  then  much 
read  and  hotly  discussed — the  great  Swinburne. 

De  Burgh  was  the  antithesis  to  the  other  poet.  He 
was  a  fine  specimen  of  a  man,  no  nonsense  about  him, 
a  genial  Bohemian,  not  dependent — fortunately,  perhaps 
— on  his  pen.  His  eccentricity  took  the  form  of  never 
allowing  any  acquaintance  he  met  to  leave  him :  he 
insisted  on  being  seen  to  his  door.  He  would  walk, 
if  you  had  time  to  spare,  but  if  not  one  had  to  take  a  cab. 
This  peculiar  eccentricity  was  in  reality  fear.  He  had 
some  complaint  of  the  heart,  and  always  dreaded  dying 
in  the  Strand.  Often  have  I  seen  him  to  his  door,  and 
great  was  his  gratitude.  Poor  De  Burgh  did  actually  die 
suddenly. 

Wit  and  poet,  De  Burgh  died  when  he  was  thirty-two, 
while  the  ink  was  still  wet  on  the  following  lines,  the 
last  he  ever  wrote,  entitled  The  Volume  of  Life.  The 
first  four  lines  ran : 

A  volume  there  is  called  the  Volume  of  Life. 
Seldom  its  pages  exceed  fourscore  : 
Those  pages  teem  with  sorrow  and  strife. 
Yet  they  who  read  them  still  crave  for  more. 

The  concluding  verse  was : — 

And  in  some  copies — ah  !   the  print  is  so  bad — 
The  tale  such  a  tissue  of  sin  and  of  tears, 
That  the  weary  reader  is  all  too  glad 
When  the  printer's  FINIS  at  last  appears. 

The  theatrical  associations  of  the  Strand  alone  are 
sufficient  for  a  chapter.  Such  is  the  whirligig  of  time, 


IRVING   AS   "DIGBY   GRANT"  IN   "THE   TWO   ROSES.' 
19 


x>  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

there  is  not  one  Strand  theatre  standing  now  that  I 
frequented  in  my  early  life  in  London.  The  Strand 
Theatre  is  now  a  tube  station,  the  Gaiety,  the  Adelphi, 
and  the  Lyceum  are  not  the  theatres  I  sat  in.  The  Opera 
Comique,  the  Globe,  and  others  disappeared  to  widen 
the  Strand. 

I  came  to  London  in  the  year  1873,  when  the  Strand 
was  the  centre  of  theatreland. 

That  young  actor,  Henry  Irving,  afterwards  Sir 
Henry,  was  having  his  first  benefit  in  the  Lyceum 
Theatre,  under  the  management  of  Colonel  Bateman, 
who  had  "  discovered "  this  promising  young  actor 
when  playing  Digby  Grant  in  The  Two  Roses,  an  extra- 
ordinary performance  which  is  so  often  referred  to, 
and  had  brought  him  to  the  Lyceum  to  support  his 
daughter  in  his  various  productions.  But  it  was  not 
long  before  young  Irving  asserted  himself  and  brought 
him  the  play  called  The  Bells,  written  by  an  obscure 
and  generally  Bohemian  barrister,  Lewis,  who  lived 
on  this  bit  of  luck  for  years,  and  always  said,  "  I  made 
Irving." 

But  what  overshadowed  everything  in  London  and 
permeated  the  stage  and  the  music-hall  was  the  brilliant 
visit  of  the  Shah.  "  Have  you  seen  the  Shah  ?  "  was 
the  catch-phrase  of  the  hour.  His  photograph  was  in 
every  window  and  his  picture  in  every  paper  :  at  the  Opera 
Comique  was  produced  a  most  amusing  burlesque  of 
the  Shah's  visit — Kissi-Kissi  :  or  the  Pa,  the  Ma,  and  the 
Padisha,  by  F.  C.  Burnand,  music  by  Oifenback.  A 
brother  of  Arthur  Sullivan's  played  the  Shah  :  he  was 
the  original  judge  in  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  Trial  by 
Jury  in  after-years.  The  Shah  in  the  first  act  was 
represented  as  a  bankrupt :  all  his  famous  diamonds 


SOME  STRAND  FREQUENTERS 


21 


had  disappeared j   in  their  place  on  his  hat  and  around 
his  neck  were  strings  of  pawn  tickets. 

It  was  stated  at  the  time  that  the  Shah  was  so  impressed 
with  the  attire  of  the 
young  ladies  in  the 
ballet  that  on  his  re- 
turn he  adopted  it  as 
the  Court  dress  in 
Persia  !  —  hardly  less 
startling  than  the 
adoption  of  the  Per- 
sian ladies'  dress  would 
be  for  our  Court  here. 
The  sight  of  our  Court 
beauties  tied  up  in 
sacks,  the  shape  of 
balloons,  although 
economic,  would  cause 
more  laughter  than 
any  raised  by  the 
performance  of  Kissi- 
Kissi  at  the  old  Opera 
Comique. 

Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra was  the  attrac- 
tion at  Drury  Lane, 
under  the  direction  of 
F.  B.  Chatterton,  that 
old-time  and  unlucky  ,.  x  MADE  IRVING.» 

manager — a     magnifi- 
cent spectacle,  principally  famous  for  the  truly  beautiful 
scenery  by  Beverley.     Antony  was  played  by  an  actor 
of  the  old  school — James  Anderson — whom  I  knew  very 


22  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

well  in  after-years.  He  had  made  his  money  in 
Australia  when  the  first  people  over  there  were  making 
theirs,  and  this  return  to  his  own  glory  in  London — 
for  it  was  mostly  glory  and  little  pay  in  his  younger 
days — was  perhaps  the  last  glitter  of  this  "  star."  After 
that  he  grew  his  beard,  retiring  to  his  armchair  at  the 
Gar  rick  Club. 

Shortly  after  seeing  him  as  Antony,  I  recollect  passing 
along  Old  Wych  Street,  in  the  Strand,  and  observing 
him  standing  with  his  back  to  a  shop  door,  gazing  in- 
tently at  an  oil  painting  which  was  high  up  in  the  window 
of  a  second-hand  shop  opposite  to  him.  I  recalled  this 
little  incident  to  him  years  afterwards  in  the  smoking- 
room  of  the  Garrick  Club.  Taking  me  into  another 
room,  he  showed  me,  framed,  that  very  portrait  I  saw 
him  looking  at  years  before — it  was  a  portrait  of  himself 
in  Coriolanus. 

When  he  was  a  younger  actor  and  the  rage  of  London, 
playing  Coriolanus,  a  young  unknown  artist  begged 
Anderson  to  sit  for  his  portrait  in  character,  as  it  would 
be  a  good  advertisement  for  the  young  artist.  Anderson 
never  saw  the  painting  or  the  artist  again  until,  as  an 
old  man,  he  spied  it  hanging  up  in  the  second-hand 
shop.  "  I  wondered  was  it  a  portrait  of  myself,  so  I 
went  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  to  have  a  good  look 
at  it.  There  was  no  mistaking  it,  my  boy ;  it  was 
Jimmy  Anderson's  neck.  There  is  not  another  man 
in  the  world  with  so  long  a  neck  as  mine." 

This  portrait  of  Anderson  still  hangs  on  the  walls 
of  the  Garrick,  close  to  the  portrait  of  another  actor 
who  flourished  at  the  same  time — Walter  Lacy. 

Burlesques  were  rampant  in  those  days,  written  by 
Reece,  Byron,  and  Burnand — hardly  a  week  passed  that 


SOME  STRAND  FREQUENTERS  23 

these  happy-go-lucky  punsters  did  not  contribute   one, 
but  the  majority  unfortunately  were  short-lived. 

Always  an  ardent  Dickensian,  I  looked  in  at  Charing 
Cross  Theatre,  now  part  of  Charing  Cross  Hospital,  to 
see  a  farce  written  by  Charles  Dickens,  the  only  drama, 
it  is  said,  that  the  great  novelist  ever  wrote.  It  was 
called  A  Strange  Gentleman,  but  I  have  no  recollection 
whatever  of  it.  But  I  do  recollect  seeing  at  the  Globe 
just  then  a  play  written  on  Dombey  and  Son.  I  re- 
member it  particularly  on  account  of  one  of  the 
finest  impersonations  I  ever  saw,  certainly  the  best  of  all 
Dickens's  on  the  stage,  the  Carker  of  James  Fernandez. 

Then  at  the  Vaudeville  those  old  English  plays  were 
having  a  most  successful  run.  The  School  for  Scandal, 
played  to  big  houses  for  over  four  hundred  nights,  which 
was  considered  a  tremendous  success  in  those  days,  and 
was  followed  by  The  Road  to  Ruin,  was  the  first  of  the 
series  I  saw. 

The  fine  cast  included  W.  Farren,  David  James, 
Charles  Warner,  Tom  Thorne,  Horace  Wigan,  Miss 
Sophie  Larkin,  and  one  of  "  The  Two  Roses  "  who  had 
bloomed  so  long  in  the  same  theatre — Amy  Fawcett. 

David  James  pleased  me  the  most.  There  was  no 
doubt  he  was  one  of  the  best  low  comedians  we  ever 
had  on  the  London  stage.  I  met  him  years  afterwards, 
and  he  always  struck  me  as  an  unassuming,  clever  man 
of  the  world,  like  all  his  race  with  an  eye  to  the  main 
chance.  When  he  made  his  "  pile,"  as  the  Yankees 
say,  over  the  phenomenal  run  of  Our  Boys,  he  practically 
retired.  His  real  name  was  Belasco.  He  was  always 
the  low  comedian,  off  the  stage  as  well  as  on,  even 
when  patronised  by  what  he  would  call  "  the  upper 
succles." 


24  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

The  Duke  of  Beaufort,  who  in  the  eighties  was 
the  king  of  theatrical  Bohemia,  and  a  well-known 
frequenter  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  had  a  great  liking  for 
Belasco,  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  lunch  at  the 
comedian's  house  somewhere  in  Camden  Town.  The 


DAVID  JAMBS  AND  THE  DUKE. 

Duke  drove  up  in  his  four-in-hand,  causing  a  stir  in 
that  neighbourhood  of  cheap  lodging-houses  which  had 
not  been  equalled  for  many  a  day.  The  lunch  over, 
the  company  were  invited  into  the  back  garden  to  enjoy 
their  weeds.  David  James,  then  addressing  himself  to 
the  Duke  and  his  friends,  said  :  "  I  believe,  your  grace, 


SOME  STRAND  FREQUENTERS  25 

you  are  very  fond  of  horseflesh.     Would  you  like  to  look 
over  my  stables  ?  " 

The  Duke,  who  was  always  the  courtier,  bowed,  and 
said  nothing  would  please  him  better.  They  marched 
up  the  little  back  garden  to  the  little  stable,  in  which 
stood  one  miserable  animal  covered  with  a  sack.  Whisking 
off  the  old  sack,  James  said  to  the  Duke,  "  He  ain't  much 
to  look  at,  your  grace,  but  he  is  all  right  on  Sundays 
for  the  family." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   MERRY   "  SEVENTIES  " 

The  Strand  Theatre — Mrs.  Malaprop — Old-time  actors — Barry  Sullivan 
— The  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  gold  mine — The  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil — Satirical  periodicals — The  Octopus — The  Owl — Lord 
Glenesk  as  a  humorist — Torick — Fun 

THE  seventies  of  which  I  am  writing  were  the  days 
of  gay  Lord  Quexes,  Lord  Henry  Lennoxes,  Lord  Rane- 
laghs,  and  other  foppish  old  Don  Juans  hanging  around 
the  stages  of  burlesque  and  ballet.  Paddy  Green  pre- 
sided at  Evans's,  the  wondrous  place  with  its  chops 
and  baked  potatoes,  its  virtuous  choir- singing,  and  cham- 
pagne corks  popping ;  and  the  Poses  Plastiques  were  on 
view  nightly  in  Leicester  Square.  Money  was  plentiful, 
the  Franco-German  war  had  made  England  rich,  and 
our  country  cousins  were  having  a  good  time — that  was 
all! 

Clubland  was  then  select  and  limited.  Restaurants 
were  few.  Actors  met  and  supped  at  the  taverns,  and 
at  the  Bohemian  little  clubs ;  the  Savage  Club,  with 
its  sanded  floor,  was  then  their  club  of  luxury.  Salaries 
were  modest,  so  were  actors.  They  lived  for  their  work 
and  for  themselves,  not  for  society.  Bohemianism  was 
their  dream  ;  good-fellowship  their  motto.  They  loved 

their  London  as  London  loved  them. 

26 


THE  MERRY  "SEVENTIES"  27 

The  Strand  Theatre,  now  a  tube  station,  was  the 
merriest  side-show  in  the  seventies  and  early  eighties. 
One  was  always  sure  of  a  laugh  there.  There  was  even 
laughter  behind  the  scenes,  for  was  not  Mrs.  Swan- 
borough,  the  manageress,  the  Mrs.  Malaprop  of  her  time  ? 
Was  it  not  also  the  home  of  Terry  and  Marius,  of  Miss 
St.  John  and  Nellie  Bromley,  James  and  Thome,  Harry 
Cox,  and  many  other  ever-to-be-remembered  enter- 
tainers ? 

Many  stories  of  Mrs.  Swanborough  have  been  freely 
reported.  Many  of  these  "  Mrs.  Malapropisms  "  were, 
I  think,  the  invention  of  Henry  J.  Byron,  the  actor 
and  prolific  playwright.  They  were  generally  asserted 
to  have  occurred  in  Mrs.  Swanborough's  conversations 
with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards  King  Edward — 
who  frequently  visited  the  Strand  Theatre,  and  was 
duly  received  by  the  proprietress — "  'Ave  your  Royal 
'Ighness  seen  Mr.  Dore's  wonderful  picture,  Christ 
Leaving  the  Criterion  ?  " 

"  I  say,  Mrs.  Swanborough,  you  want  an  architect 
to  look  over  this  theatre ;  it  absolutely  rocks  when  I 
walk  in." 

"  Now  does  it,  your  Royal  'Ighness  ?  That  must 
be  caused  by  the  obesity  of  the  audience  when  you  enter." 

I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that  it  was  at  the  Strand 
Theatre  that  King  Edward  gave  an  instance  of  his  keen 
observation  and  strictness. 

One  evening  he  observed  the  conductor  of  the  orchestra 
wearing  foreign  orders,  specially  put  on  for  the  event. 
King  Edward  sent  round  and  ordered  him  to  remove 
them,  as  it  was  contrary  to  the  rules  of  Court  etiquette 
to  wear  foreign  orders  without  special  permission. 

Actors   in   those   days   were   conspicuous.     Nowadays 


28  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

all  men  seem  alike,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  old 
comedian,  and  particularly  the  old  tragedians  in  the 
Strand,  Phelps  and  Ryder,  Creswick  and  Barry  Sullivan. 
The  last-named  was  perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  of 
the  four.  He  never  forgot — or  allowed  those  he  met 
to  forget — that  he  was  the  greatest  tragedian  on  the  stage. 
The  power  of  his  Hibernian  accent,  his  beetle  brows 
and  flashing  eyes  were  always  at  play. 

I  recollect  seeing  him  cross  the  Strand  through  the 
crowded  traffic,  and  for  the  moment  I  thought  he  would 
have  been  run  over  by  a  hansom.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  The 
great  and  only  tragedian  opened  his  mouth,  flashed  his 
eyes,  struck  a  pose — and  the  horse  reared  until  the  great 
Barry  strode  past.  There  was  the  power  of  personality 
if  you  like ! 

My  work  took  me  to  the  theatres  a  good  deal.  For 
'The  Illustrated  London  News  I  sketched  Gilbert  and  Sulli- 
van's first  success  at  the  Opera  Comique.  No  one  then 
realised  what  a  gold  mine  those  operas  would  eventually 
prove  to  be,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  promoters  had 
"  to  go  into  the  Strand  "  to  find  some  one  with  a  modest 
few  hundreds  to  work  the  mine.  That  lucky  some  one 
turned  out  to  be  the  proprietor  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre, 
Dublin,  and  to  look  after  his  interests  he  placed  his 
nephew,  Mr.  George  Edwardes,  in  the  concern.  Mr. 
Edwardes  was  subsequently  the  ruler  of  the  Gaiety 
Theatre  in  the  Strand,  and  many  others — so  you  see 
what  a  chance  meeting  in  the  Strand  will  bring  about  in 
the  fortunes  of  men. 

The  busy,  crowded  Strand  has,  until  the  last  widening 
and  improvements  spoilt  its  fun,  been  the  rendezvous  of 
the  members  of  the  profession  and  others  connected 
with  the  stage.  I  recollect  being  introduced  to  a  keen 


THE  MERRY  "SEVENTIES"  29 

little  Welshman,  carrying  a  black  bag ;  he  was  a  business 
traveller  then,  who  had  just  produced  his  first  play  in 
London — I  think  it.  was  called  Heart  of  Hearts — at  the 
Vaudeville  Theatre  in  the  Strand.  He  has  now  been 
famous  for  years,  and  success  has  not  spoilt  him.  When 
a  commercial  traveller  he  saw  life  and  saw  the  theatre, 


THE   POWER   OF  THE  TRAGEDIAN'S  EYE. 

and  gained  the  experience  out  of  which  the  popular 
plays  of  Henry  Arthur  Jones  have  proved  so  human 
and  delightful. 

In  my  early  days  in  London,  and  for  some  years  after- 
wards the  Strand  was  the  rendezvous  of  most  men  con- 
nected with  literature  and  the  stage,  and  a  good  sprinkling 
of  artists  and  musicians,  to  say  nothing  of  the  law ;  and 


30  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

these  were  not  needy  Bohemians,  but  the  shining  lights 
of  the  day.  The  fact  is  recorded  that  one  day  H. 
J.  Byron,  the  actor  and  witty  playwright,  came  "  pro- 
miscuously "  upon  three  gentlemen  walking  arm-in-arm  in 
the  Strand — Edmund  Yates,  Henry  Labouchere,  and  the 
massive  Arthur  Sketchley.  "  Be  ye  greeted,"  Byron  cried, 
"ye  three  greatest  enemies  of  man — world,  flesh,  and  devil." 

Dutch,  German,  Russian,  French  men  of  letters — 
mostly  letters  of  introduction — found  sympathetic  and 
congenial  spirits  in  the  Strand.  The  oldest  of  them 
all  was  a  curious  little  man,  Dr.  Gustave  Ludwig 
Strauss,  who  wrote  under  the  nom-de-plume  "  The  Old 
Bohemian."  A  bright-eyed,  sharp-nosed  little  face, 
belonging  to  a  head  much  too  big  (artistically)  for  his 
body,  peered  out  of  a  massive  head  of  long,  wavy  hair 
and  spreading  beard  and  moustache.  He  crept  up  to 
one  silently  purring,  but  once  he  opened  his  mouth 
he  never  stopped  talking. 

I  recollect  I  made  a  caricature  of  him  as  a  cat — which 
the  Bohemian's  publisher  walked  off  with,  and  the 
"  Doctor  "  cut  me  ever  afterwards.  The  old  Bohemian 
was  a  well-educated  man,  one  of  those  jack-of-all-  (liter- 
ary) trades  and  master  of  none — at  least  not  in  a  com- 
mercial sense.  He  wrote  a  delightful  autobiography 
of  which  George  Augustus  Sala  said,  "  Fiction  is  liberally 
mingled  with  fact."  The  old  Bohemian  eventually 
found  sanctuary  in  the  Charterhouse,  but  he  was  too 
Bohemian  for  its  hospitality  and  left  it. 

In  the  seventies  there  was  a  tremendous  boom  in 
satirical  periodicals.  The  Tomahawk  had  just  been 
buried,  and  Arthur  a'Beckett,  its  editor,  had  retired  into 
the  wigwam  of  the  hunchback-chief,  Punch,  to  smoke 
the  calumet  of  peace  in  the  odour  of  respectability. 


THE  MERRY  "SEVENTIES"  31 

Figaro  in  London,  believed  to  be  endowed  by  the 
Emperor  of  the  French,  Napoleon  the  Third,  and  run 
as  propaganda  for  him  by  Mortimer,  was  very  popular, 
principally  due  to  the  very  clever  nonsense  written  by 
"  Philander  SmifL" 


At  the  same  time  we  had  The  Mask,  written  and 
illustrated  by  the  ex -dragoon  officer  Alfred  Thompson, 
artist,  writer,  editor,  playwright,  and  producer ;  The 
Glow  Worm,  a  theatrical  broadsheet  which  used  to  circu- 
late at  night  in  the  theatres.  Of  a  more  satirical  nature 
was  The  Hawk.  For  these  and  a  whole  host  of  satirical 
journals  there  seemed  no  difficulty  in  finding  backers. 

Men  like  myself  were  sought  out  by  those  bitten  by 


32  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

the  craze  for  caustic  journalism.  I  recollect  receiving 
a  letter  from  a  stranger  in  the  Midlands  proposing  to 
start  a  journal  of  this  class  in  London,  and  requesting 
me  to  meet  him.  I  duly  presented  myself  at  the  Salis- 
bury Hotel,  off  Fleet  Street,  and  was  ushered  into  a 
private  room,  where  a  funny  little  man  was  seated,  not 
much  bigger  than  myself,  of  middle  age  and  of  apparently 
prosperous  circumstances. 

Manuscripts  (all  his  own)  were  scattered  here,  there, 
and  everywhere.  A  bottle  of  champagne  and  a  box  of 
cigars — it  was  n  a.m. — were  open  on  the  table,  pens 
and  ink,  despatch  boxes,  scissors,  a  bottle  of  paste — all 
the  paraphernalia  of  an  editor's  office — gave  a  strong 
impression  of  serious  "  business."  Indeed,  I  never  met 
any  one  before  or  since  more  determined  to  be  an  editor 
and  proprietor  than  this  gentleman  from  the  country. 

He  informed  me  that  he  had  plenty  of  money  to 
finance  a  publication,  but  that,  it  subsequently  tran- 
spired, was  the  only  asset  he  possessed.  He  had  any 
number  of  ideas,  which  he  dilated  upon  at  length 
with  evident  self-satisfaction.  He  had,  he  told  me, 
been  trying  for  a  long  time  to  get  his  articles  published, 
but  all  editors  were  ignorant,  or  jealous,  and  not  one 
would  accept  a  line  of  his.  He  had  therefore  come  right 
into  their  centre  to  show  up  their  stupidity,  and  the 
crass  stupidity  of  all  men,  public  or  private ;  in  fact, 
he  intended  to  make  things  hum.  He  wished  me  to  be 
his  artist. 

As  the  title  of  his  weekly  sensation  was  The  Viper  I 
shook  my  head.  He  then  suggested  The  Vampire. 
"  No."  He  smiled.  "  I  thought  you  would  not  like 
these,"  he  said,  "  but  you  will  like  the  title  I  have  decided 
upon."  He  opened  the  door  to  see  that  all  Fleet  Street 


THE  MERRY  "SEVENTIES" 


33 


was  not  eavesdropping,  opened  a  despatch  box,  and  laid 
a  sheet  of  paper  in  front  of  me  on  which  was  written — 
The  Octopus. 

"  Now  then,  young  man,  please  do  not  repeat  that 
title,  not  even  to  me — not  a  word  I    You  have  grasped 


"  THE   OCTOPUS." 

it  ? — good !  Now,  lose  no  time,  design  the  first  page, 
including  that  title,  bring  it,  and  we  will  then  discuss 
business.  The  tentacles  of  the  Octopus,  you  see, 
embrace  all  the  subjects  I  have  described  to  you." 

The  octopus — I  am  now  referring  to  natural  history, 
not  unnatural  journalism — was  the  sensation  of  the  hour. 
3 


34  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

It  was  being  exhibited  at  the  Brighton  Aquarium, 
and  in  those  days  was  considered  unique.  This  fact,  no 
doubt,  inspired  my  acquaintance  from  the  Midlands, 
but  he  failed  to  see  what  I  did  at  once — that  the  public 
would  look  upon  such  a  title  as  a  scientific  publication 
on  the  fish — already  overdone.  In  my  rough  design 
I  made  this  point  evident.  Under  the  heading  I  sketched 
in  a  portrait  of  dear  old  Henry  Lee,  the  popular  manager 
of  the  Brighton  Aquarium,  and  sent  it  to  the  Salisbury 
Hotel.  By  return  of  post  I  received  the  following  note  : 

"SiR, — I  did  not  ask  you  to  criticise  the  commands 
of  your  editer  and  proprieter.  As  you  do  not  take  this 
commission  seriously,  I  am  finding  another  artist." 

The  Octopus  never  appeared,  and  I  never  again  heard 
of  its  "  Editer  and  Proprieter." 

The  aristocrat  of  all  these  satirical  papers  was  The 
Qwl>  edited  by  Algernon  Borthwick,  afterwards  Lord 
Glenesk,  of  The  Morning  Post,  with  a  staff — unpaid,  I 
believe — of  extraordinarily  clever  men,  literary,  diplo- 
matic, and  political. 

Mr.  T.  A.  S.  Escott,  for  so  long  the  acting-editor  of 
The  World  in  its  palmy  days,  and  the  right  hand  of  its 
proprietor,  Edmund  Yates,  thus  described  it : 

"  The  Owl,  like  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  '  Pendennis,' 
might  have  made  the  boast — never,  as  a  fact,  put  forward 
by  its  namesake — that  it  was  written  by  gentlemen  for 
gentlemen.  The  information  it  often  contained  in 
politics,  especially  in  diplomacy,  was  generally  in  advance 
of,  and  more  accurate  than,  that  which  appeared  in 
the  daily  or  weekly  press.  It  might,  no  doubt,  have 
commanded  even  then  a  wide  and  paying  circulation. 


LORD   GLENESK. 

35 


36  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

It  was,  however,  ostentatiously  conducted  with  a  fine 
disregard  of  commercial  principles. 

"  The  writers  thought  themselves  sufficiently  rewarded 
by  the  opportunity  of  showing,  in  good  company,  their 
brightness,  cleverness,  knowingness,  and  wit  to  a  choice 
circle  of  appreciative  readers ;  they  only  sent  in  their 
copy  to  the  editor  when  they  were  in  the  humour  to  write, 
or  thought  they  had  something  that  would  repay  the 
trouble  of  saying ;  their  engagements,  social,  political, 
or  diplomatic,  made  their  movements  rather  uncertain  ; 
they  refused  to  be  *  dunned  for  copy.' ' 

As  a  consequence,  newsvendors  were  not  very  keen 
to  obtain  orders  for  the  clever  columns,  appearing  at 
eccentrically  uncertain  intervals.  It  was  really  brought 
out  for  the  edification  of  the  staff,  not  as  a  commercial 
speculation. 

Lord  Glenesk  was  a  very  remarkable  and  fascinating 
man,  courteous,  witty,  good-looking,  and  a  master  of 
small  talk.  He  was  an  excellent  journalist  and  a  very 
hard  worker  to  boot,  though  no  one  would  have  believed 
this  in  his  latter  days  when  he  became  proprietor  of  The 
Morning  Post,  as  he  then  delighted  to  pose  as  a  dilettante. 

He  was  particularly  clever  at  selecting  the  right  men 
for  his  staff.  One  man,  I  recollect,  he  heard  making  a 
speech  at  some  political  meeting ;  he  at  once  engaged 
him  as  a  leader  writer,  and  he  remained  on  the  staff 
till  his  death.  This  journalist  prided  himself  that  he  was 
not  a  Fleet  Street  man ;  and  Bohemia,  so  called,  was 
to  him  unknown.  He  was  elected  to  the  Garrick  Club 
and  soon  became  one  of  its  journalistic  features — not  a 
pleasant  feature  either,  for  he  was  an  egotist  and  a 
gourmand,  and  one  of  the  ugliest  men  I  have  ever  met. 

Lord  Glenesk  had  a  keen  sense  of  humour,  and  was  an 


38  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

excellent  raconteur.  I  remember  he  gave  me  quite  an 
entertainment  while  we  were  travelling  together  alone 
in  a  carriage  to  the  country  one  Sunday  morning.  Irving 
had  produced  his  much  criticised  representation  of  King 
Lear  the  previous  evening.  I  was  giving  a  show  that 
night  and  was  unable  to  be  present — perhaps  the  only 
first  night  of  Irving's  I  missed.  Glenesk  was  full  of  the 
subject  of  Irving's  terrible  mistake  in  playing  the  King 
as  an  imbecile.  It  appears  that  Irving  was  for  some 
reason  seized  with  the  unaccountable  idea  of  so  playing 
the  part  at  the  eleventh  hour  when  he  stood  at  the  wings 
ready  to  go  on  ;  otherwise  I  am  sure  he  would  never  have 
made  such  a  blunder. 

In  the  part  he  was  almost  inaudible,  and  Glenesk's 
burlesque  of  Irving's  peculiar  utterance  and  mannerism 
was  immense.  So  tickled  was  I,  though  heartily  sorry 
for  Irving,  that  when  I  saw  the  performance  at  the 
Lyceum  a  few  evenings  later,  Glenesk's  imitation  haunted 
me  all  through,  and  I  could  hardly  refrain  from  laughing. 
It  had  the  same  effect  upon  me  as  when  I  saw  Royce 
at  the  Gaiety  burlesquing  Irving's  performance  in  The 
Corsican  Brothers,  one  of  Irving's  most  successful  parts. 

It  was  in  that  burlesque  at  the  Gaiety — how  good 
those  genuinely  funny  burlesques  of  the  time  were,  to 
be  sure — that  Royce  in  the  duel  scene  appeared  with 
only  one  brace  over  his  spotless  white  shirt.  The  ghost 
— his  brother — wore  the  other  ! 

An  imitation  of  the  defunct  Tomahawk  was  started 
soon  after  I  came  to  London,  and  I  was  engaged  to  illus- 
trate it,  being  the  only  artist  on  the  staff. 

It  was  doomed  by  its  name  Torick. 

"  Alas,  poor  Torick  \  "  was  inevitable,  and  I  was  asked 


THE  MERRY  "SEVENTIES"  39 

to  design  for  the  cover  a  very  sad  Yorick  gazing  at  a 
bauble,  while  a  female  figure,  resembling  poor  Ophelia, 
was  shown  in  a  set  stage  scene  for  Hamlet. 

Its  editor  was  Richard  Dowling,  the  novelist,  who, 
though  a  humorist  to  order,  was  a  sentimentalist  by 
nature,  a  mild  delightful  Bohemian  with  a  mind  void 
of  satire,  unkindliness,  or  aggressiveness.  Consequently, 
apart  from  the  size  of  the  paper,  and  my  cartoon,  "  with 
a  colour  block,"  similar  to  Matt  Morgan's  cartoons  in 
The  Tomahawk,  it  was  a  very  tame  production.  The 
letterpress  was  respectable  and  the  effect  artistically, 
literary,  and  commercially  was  nil.  The  man  who  found 
the  money  and  lost  it  was  a  heavy  good  Christian  New- 
castle man  in  the  glass  trade,  a  personal  friend  and  great 
admirer  of  Dowling. 

The  advent  of  its  publication  brought  to  my  know- 
ledge for  the  first  time  a  trick  in  the  printing  trade, 
which,  alas !  has  annoyed  me  more  than  once  since.  It 
was  this.  Certain  questionable  little  printers  in  posses- 
sion of  some  obscure,  ramshackle  printing  establishment 
in  the  purlieus  of  Fleet  Street  watch  every  announcement 
of  a  new  paper. 

As  soon  as  its  title  is  known  no  time  is  lost  in  getting 
out  something  that  looks  like  a  periodical  with  the  same 
title  and  dated  back  a  few  weeks.  This  is  duly  presented 
to  those  bringing  out  the  new  venture,  with  all  sorts 
of  injunctions  threatened,  and  damages  claimed.  Then 
these  unscrupulous  printers,  after  bluffing  for  a  time, 
suggest  compromising  for  as  much  as  they  can  squeeze 
out  of  the  bewildered  and  excited  promoters  of  the  new 
periodical. 

I  happened  to  be  in  the  office  of  Torick  when  this 
trick  was  played.  I  took  up  the  spurious  Yorick,  which 


40  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

we  were  informed  was  some  weeks  old,  and  discovering 
the  printer's  ink  still  wet,  I  threw  the  copy  out  of  the 
window,  and  took  upon  myself  to  tell  the  man  who 
brought  it  that  he  might  pick  it  out  of  the  gutter  on 
his  rapid  exit  from  the  office. 

Like  Thackeray  and  other  men  of  letters  one  could 
mention,  Dowling  began  to  write  late  in  life.  He  was 
thirty  or  more  before  he  came  with  his  mother  to  London 
to  start  in  literature.  He  had  been  an  omnivorous 
reader  from  childhood,  and  therefore  actually  saw  the 
world  through  the  works  of  those  he  had  read,  and  not 
for  himself,  the  exception  being  in  his  first  book,  The 
Mystery  of  Killard,  which  he  wrote  of  the  wild  Irish 
country  coast  he  had  come  from,  and  in  this  book  he  gave 
a  wonderfully  fresh  and  strong  picture  of  nature. 

When  I  read  that  book  I  thought  that  Dowling  was 
going  to  be  a  great  author,  and  when  I  met  him  and 
delighted  in  his  companionship,  I  thought  his  wit  must 
surely  assert  itself,  and  that  soon  his  name  would  become 
of  world-wide  fame.  But  he  soon  drifted  into  the 
quicksands  of  Bohemianism  and  never  got  off.  He 
sank  a  wreck,  with  a  rich  cargo  of  genius  that  was  never 
delivered  to  the  world. 

Dowling's  work  was  much  influenced  by  that  of  Edgar 
Allen  Poe ;  he  was  always  studying  Poe's  books,  reading 
them  to  me,  and  delighted  to  discuss  them  in  detail. 
I  started  illustrating  Poe,  but,  strange  to  say,  I  never 
went  on  with  the  drawings,  though  I  still  enjoy  reading 
his  stories.  Dowling  wrote  some  clever  tales  in  Poe's 
style — probably  better  known  now  as  the  Sherlock 
Holmes  school. 

Fun  had  a  long  career,  and  in  its  earlier  days  had  a 
-better  staff  than  any  other  humorous  paper  was  ever 


THE  MERRY  "SEVENTIES"  41 

endowed  with.  It  was  edited  by  "  Young  Tom  Hood," 
with  Henry  Sampson,  founder  of  The  Referee,  as  his 
right-hand  man,  and  H.  J.  Byron.  Sir  W.  S.  Gilbert's 
Bab  Ballads  appeared  in  its  pages ;  and  among  the 
literary  contributors  were  Francis  Burnand,  subsequently 
Sir  Francis  and  editor  of  Punch,  Prowse,  George  Rose 
("  Arthur  Sketchley "),  Tom  Archer,  Tom  Robertson, 
the  dramatist,  William  Brough,  and  Clement  Scott ; 
and  George  R.  Sims,  when  Sampson  became  editor 
after  Tom  Hood's  death,  became  a 
vigorous  contributor. 

Among  its  best-known  artists  were 
Matt  Morgan,  Boyd  Houghton, 
Brunton  (whose  work  was  similar  to 
Dicky  Doyle's  in  Punch),  and  that 
very  clever  and  delightful  artist 
Paul  Grey,  who,  alas !  died  just  as 
he  was  making  a  great  reputation; 
after  him  the  genial  Gordon  Thomp- 
son was  for  years  the  cartoonist. 
He  was  followed  by  Fred  Barnard 
as  cartoonist,  but  it  cannot  be  said 
the  accomplished  and  versatile  illustrator  was  at  home 
in  political  cartooning. 

There  were  a  host  of  others  all  as  brilliant,  including 
Sullivan,  with  his  inimitable  British  workman  series. 
I  have  doubtless  omitted  many  names,  both  writers 
and  artists,  of  that  extraordinary  staff,  but  these  are 
sufficient  to  show  how  excellent  it  was  and  how  cheap, 
and  all  for  a  penny. 

William  Brunton  was,  if  I  may  use  the  term,  the 
Bohemian  caricaturist,  in  the  same  way  as  Wallis  Mackay 
was  in  a  later  period  ;  both  were  essentially  of  the  Fket 


RICHARD  DOWLING 

AS  FOE. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Street  clique,  always 
at  hand  for  any 
new  venture,  and 
thoroughly  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of 
their  surroundings. 

The  capital  letter 
W,  laid  on  its  side, 
attached  to  the 
capital  letter  B, 
divided  with  an 
arrow,  makes  a  re- 
presentation of  clever 
W.  B.'s  familiar  sig- 
nature. 

Old  Tegetmeier 
introduced  me  to 
Brunton  as  his 
"  double-hearted 
friend,"  and  re- 
marked that  when 
some  one  sang  Long- 
fellow's poem,  "The 
Arrow  and  the 
Song  " — then  enjoy- 
ing such  a  vogue — which  begins  with  the  words : 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air  : 

It  fell  to  earth,  I  know  not  where, 


WILUAM   BRUNTON   AND   HIS 
"  TRADE  MARK." 


a  member  of  the  Savage  Club  said  that  William  Brunton 
had  swallowed  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 


The  prosperous  seventies — The  picture  dealer — Shark — Bluff  studio* 
in  Bloomsbury — An  artists'  model — "  Mr.  Galey  " — A  life  class — 
A  dancing  academy — "  Cramp  " 

To  describe  the  art  world  in  London  in  the  early  seventies 
is  to  paint  a  picture  no  one  under  the  age  of  sixty  would 
credit  as  the  truth. 

It  was  the  height  of  English  artists'  prosperity. 
Money  was  plentiful ;  all  had  become  rich  through 
the  boom  in  exports  during  the  Franco-German  War. 
Those  who  had  "  made  their  pile  "  had  a  burning  desire 
to  lessen  that  pile  as  soon  as  possible.  They  literally 
threw  their  money  about. 

J  ust  then  the  picture  dealer  arose  in  the  artistic  firma- 
ment. "  Buy,  buy,  buy  !  "  was  his  cry.  In  those  days 
the  one  idea  was  to  buy  pictures,  larger,  dearer,  and 
more  of  them  than  your  neighbour  possessed.  It  was 
not  Art  for  Art's  sake  ;  it  was  pictures  for  profit's  sake. 

Alas !  what  a  showman's  bubble  it  all  was.  Now 
that  it  has  burst,  investors  see  their  masterpieces  knocked 
down  at  Christie's  for  a  mere  song.  Picture  dealers 
in  the  old-fashioned  flourishing  days  of  art  were  a  clever 
set  of  rogues.  Horse-dealers  could  not  hold  a  candle 

43 


44  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

to  them  in  the  two  necessary  accomplishments  of  their 
trade — bluff  and  lies. 

One  wonders  nowadays  how  the  dreadful  art  of  the 
Mid- Victorian  era  sold  so  well.  The  worst  artists  in 
that  most  inartistic  age  made,  if  not  fortunes,  comfort- 
able incomes.  Those  who  were  successful  made  fortunes. 
Pictures  bought  off  the  easel  for  a  couple  of  thousand 
pounds,  and  re-sold  at  Christie's  within  that  period 
fetching  a  thousand  pounds  more,  are  now  knocked 
down  for  a  few  paltry  pounds. 

"  Why  is  it  ? "  asks  the  unfortunate  owner.  "  My 
father  (or  grandfather)  bought  this  Academician's  picture 
from  Shark,  the  dealer,  for  .£2,500,  a  sound  investment, 
he  was  told  ;  a  picture  written  about  and  talked  about. 
Yet  now  it  fetches  nothing.  Dishonest  bluff  on 
the  part  of  Shark  ?  Absurd !  Why,  he  offered  to  take 
it  back  at  the  same  price  within  three  years,  but  father 
knew  that  if  it  was  worth  that  to  the  dealer  it  was  worth 
more  as  an  investment." 

Quite  so,  that  is  where  Shark's  bluff  took  his  parent 
in.  If  he  first  told  his  parent  the  artist's  work  would 
live,  he  lied  and  he  knew  it,  for  it  was  only  his  buying 
up  all  that  wretched  artist's  work  that  gave  it,  for  the 
time,  a  purely  fictitious  value.  Dear  me,  how  those 
dealers  played  the  game,  to  be  sure !  I  knew  it,  I  saw  it. 
I  warned  friends,  but  they  were  bitten,  and  now  facts 
speak  for  themselves.  There  was  a  picture  ring,  or  trust, 
or  whatever  word  you  like  for  keeping  up  fictitious 
reputations  and  prices  to  work  on  the  cupidity  of  the 
ignorant  connoisseur  when  money  was  scarce.  This  gang 
condensed  it  by  getting  their  clients  to  invest  in  old 
masters.  In  the  meantime  the  modern  painters,  far  superior 
to  those  of  the  mid- Victorian  era,  had  a  bad  time  of  it. 


ARTISTS   AND  THEIR  STUDIOS 


45 


Poor  Burton  Barber,  a  painter  much  engaged  by 
Queen  Victoria,  was  eagerly  sought  after  by  the  dealers 
of  his  day.  He  was  a  slow 
painter  and  too  conscien- 
tious to  make  money,  for 
he  could  not  "  pot-boil," 
and  he  was  too  much  of  an 
invalid  to  make  a  bargain. 
I  stepped  in  and  tried  to 
help  him.  I  mentioned  a 
picture  he  was  painting  to 
the  proprietors  of  a  weekly 
illustrated  paper  as  one 
suitable  for  the  plate  for 
their  Christmas  number. 
This  they  saw,  and  offered 
to  pay  a  handsome  sum  to 
the  artist  for  the  right  of 
reproduction,  he  to  retain 
the  original  picture.  It 
was  with  difficulty  I  per- 
suaded him  to  tell  his 
dealer  that  he  would  re- 
tain his  copyright  himself. 
"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  dealer. 
Then  Barber  gave  the 
reason. 

"  Publish  your  work  in 
a  Christmas  number  !  My 
dear  sir,"  said  the  dealer  to  the  nervous  artist, 


CHARLES  BURTON  BARBER  AND 
THE  DEALER. 


that 


would  absolutely  ruin  any  chance  I  have  of  disposing 
of  it  to  my  client  who  buys  your  work." 

Barber  therefore  did  not  offer  it  to  the  illustrated 


46  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

paper,  but  the  dealer  did  half  an  hour  afterwards,  and 
pocketed  a  far  .larger  sum  for  the  right  of  it  to  appear  as 
a  coloured  plate  in  a  Christmas  number  than  he  gave  the 
artist  for  the  picture.  He  then  sold  it  for  an  increased  sum 
to  his  client,  as  the  publication  had  added  to  its  value  ! 

If  the  haunts  and  trysting-places  of  the  Bohemian 
verged  on  squalor,  the  homes  and  studios  of  the  artists 
presented  in  most  cases  an  aspect  of  faded  grandeur. 
For  the  work  of  the  artist  both  space  and  light  are  re- 
quisite, and  in  those  days  properly  erected  studios  were 
by  no  means  common.  So,  as  a  rule,  a  first-floor  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Bloomsbury  or  Fitzroy  Square, 
with  three  lofty  windows  and  huge  folding  doors,  leading 
to  the  back  room,  which  formed  the  bedroom,  con- 
stituted the  "  studio "  of  the  artist,  while  the  upper 
floor  did  duty  as  the  "  den  "  of  the  author. 

Grand  old  houses  were  these ;  houses  which  at  one 
time  were  the  homes  of  the  elite  of  London,  equipped 
as  they  were  with  splendid  oak-panelled  halls,  imposing 
staircases  and  rooms,  with  Adam  mantelpieces  and  lovely 
over-doors  and  ceilings.  Attached  to  the  railings  out- 
side the  hall  door  were  the  old  ironwork  posts  to  which 
were  affixed  the  oil  lamp  and  the  enormous  twisted 
snuffers  used  in  the  days  of  Sedan  chairs  and  their  pre- 
ceding torch-bearers,  for  the  light-carriers  to  extinguish 
their  flambeaux. 

Those  studios  in  Bohemia  might  be  easily  identified 
from  their  exteriors,  for  the  three  large  front  windows 
on  the  first  floor  were  half  blocked  up,  either  by  closing 
their  lower  shutters,  or,  what  was  much  more  common, 
by  using  a  high  curtain  of  a  green  opaque  material. 
This  proceeding  was  necessary  in  order  to  obtain  a  top 
and  naturally,  if  possible,  a  north  light. 


ARTISTS  AND  THEIR  STUDIOS 


47 


I  recollect  a  novelist  friend  of  mine,  who  inhabited 
one  of  these  roomy  first  floors  in  Bloomsbury,  once 
writing  to  ask  me  if  I  would  send  him  some  artists* 
models.  In  a  story  he  was  writing  it  was  necessary  to 
introduce  some  and  he  wished  to  study  the  type.  I 
instructed  him  to  block 
up  the  lower  portions  of 
his  windows  in  the  way 
I  have  described.  He 
did  so,  and  one  day 
sufficed  to  furnish  him 
with  the  information  he 
required.  The  "  new 
artist,"  as  he  became  pro 
tern.,  promptly  received 
dozens  of  callers  from 
among  the  numerous 
tribe  of  models  who  were 
wont  to  prowl  about  the 
neighbourhood  in  search 
of  work. 

I  venture  to  publish 
an  incident  or  two  con- 
cerning artists'  models. 

There  came  a  knock 
upon  my  studio  door 
one  day.  It  was  a  slight, 
hesitating  knock,  but  as  it  was  gently  repeated  over 
and  over  again,  I  for  once  broke  through  a  hitherto 
inviolable  rule  of  mine.  This  was  to  let  callers  find 
out  that  "  Leave  letters  next  door,"  written  on  mine 
with  an  indicative  arrow,  was  there  for  a  purpose. 

I  opened  the  door.    Outside  stood  a  young  woman 


A  MODEL. 


48  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

so  fearfully  overdressed,  and  yet  seeming  so  dreadfully 
embarrassed,  that  curiosity  impelled  me  to  ask  her  in. 
I  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Do  you  want  a  model,  sir  ?  "  she  timorously  asked. 

"  You  are  not  a  model,"  was  my  blunt  reply. 

Silence  followed.  I  eyed  her  up  and  down.  She 
seemed  nervous  and  shy. 

"  I  was  a  model,  I  assure  you,"  she  cried,  "  but  not 
for  long.  I  have  never  been  anything  for  long,"  she 
continued,  with  downcast  eyes,  "  but  I  am  sure  that 
if  I  could  get  a  fair  start  to  earn  an  honest  living  as  an 
artists'  model,  or,  indeed,  as  anything  else,  I  should 
stick  to  it." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  and  I  could  detect  by  her  accent 
that  she  was  an  educated  girl. 

"  I  ran  away,"  she  went  on,  "  and  seeing  you  enter 
here,  and  knowing  that  you  were  an  artist,  I  waited  a 
little  while  and  then  knocked.  The  last  picture  I  sat 
for  was  called  *  Taking  Sanctuary.' '  Then  she  sat 
down  and  wept. 

No  man  with  any  finer  feelings  can  resist  a  woman's 
tears.  As  a  man  of  the  world  I  am  hardened  to  most 
things,  but  even  now  a  pretty  girl  in  tears — well,  I  am 
still  but  a  man.  When  this  incident  happened  I  was 
only  a  youth. 

She  sat  for  all  the  female  figures  in  the  story  I  was 
illustrating,  which  breaks  off  with  the  heroine  as  a  nurse. 
It  may  interest  my  readers  to  know  that  the  day  she  sat 
for  this  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  a  jolly  young  hunting 
son  of  an  old  friend,  happened  to  call.  I  invited  him 
down  to  my  studio,  where  he  beheld  the  "  nurse." 

"  Hullo,  old  chap,  any  one  ill  F  "  he  inquired  anxiously. 

"  No,"  I  replied,    "  that  is  why  Miss  Blank  is  here. 


ARTISTS  AND  THEIR  STUDIOS 


49 


She  is  a  friend  of  mine ;  allow  me  to  introduce  you. 
Now,  do  you  know  of  any  one  who  is  ill  and  in  want  of 
a  nurse  ?  " 

"  I  know  of  an  old 
lady  who  isn't  ill,  but 
wants — well,  a  companion. 
My  old  Aunt  Eliza,  you 
know.  Miss  Blank  is  pos- 
sibly too  professional  for 
that  job,  and  Bath  is  a 
dull  hole,  anyway.  I  live 
with  my  aunt,  you  know, 
and  our  house  is  a  gloomy 
mansion  with  a  host  of 
servants,  and  therefore  we 
cannot  get  any  nurse  or 
companion  to  put  up  with 
Bath,  the  house,  or  the 
servants." 

"  Miss  Blank  will  try  to 
conquer  all  three,  I  am 
sure,"  I  replied. 

And  she  did. 

Within  a  year  the  aunt 
died,  and  within  eighteen 
months  Miss  Blank  was 
married  to  my  caller,  the 
nephew  and  heir. 

A  most  amusing  account 
of  an  artists'  model  was 
given  in  a  song  called 

"  Mr.  Galey,"  sung  by  the      ..^^  FOLLOWM)    ,  KYKD  HBR 
genial     Academician,     the  UP  AND  DOWN." 


50  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

late  G.  A.  Storey,  at  all  artists'  Bohemian  soirees  and 
smoking  concerts  years  ago. 
The  last  two  verses  ran  as  follows : 

Now,  if  some  fair  and  comely  maid 

You're  anxiously  expecting, 
And  o'er  your  disappointment  you 

Are  quietly  reflecting, 
You  hear  a  tap — you  say  "  Come  in," 

You  think  'tis  sweet  Miss  Bailey  ; 
You  turn  and  see  the  grisly  beard 

And  squint  of  Mr.  Galey  ! 

For  oh,  he  is  an  Artist's  Model 

Calling  on  you  daily ; 
He  squints  and  wears  a  sandy  wig, 

His  name  is  Mr.  Galey. 

Now,  having  called,  and  called  in  vain 

On  Royal  Academicians, 
Associates  and  outsiders,  who 

All  tried  him  in  positions, 
He  sought  some  eighty  unknown  men 

In  moments  unexpected, 
The  consequence  of  which  was  that 

Their  works  were  all  rejected ! 

But  yet  he  is  an  Artist's  Model, 

Calling  on  you  daily  ; 
He  squints  and  wears  a  sandy  wig, 

His  name  is  Mr.  Galey. 

My  first  studio  in  London  was  in  Newman  Street, 
Oxford  Street,  a  few  doors  from  Leigh's  celebrated 
School  of  Art.  It  was  in  the  rear  of  a  large  old-fashioned 
house  in  which  many  artists  had  studios.  The  one  I 
occupied  was  the  pick  of  "  real  studios  "  ;  by  that  I 
mean  it  was  built  for  the  purpose  with  a  large  window 


O.   A.   STOREY   SINGING   "  MR.    GAUBY." 


53  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

on  the  north  side  of  the  house  extending  to  the  roof. 
Two  others  flanked  either  side  of  mine ;  one  occupied 
by  an  Italian  sculptor,  and  the  other  by  a  "  dealers' 
artist,"  i.e.  a  pot-boiler.  There  were  others  upstairs 
in  the  main  building.  Mine  was  conveniently  situated 
at  the  end  of  the  entrance  hall,  and  the  large  rooms  on  the 
right  of  that  hall  were  a  dancing  academy.  Fortunately 
for  me  this  was  only  opened  in  the  evenings.  It  was 
exactly  the  style  of  dancing  academy  described  by  Dickens 
in  Bleak  House,  presided  over  by  Mr.  Turveydrop, 
senior.  That  was  for  children ;  this  establishment 
was  run  for  the  instruction  and  recreation  of  shop-girls 
and  young  clerks  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Oxford  Street. 

As  I  say,  my  studio  was  situated  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor  which  ran  side  by  side  of  this  dancing  academy. 
I  fortunately  left  off  work  before  the  music  struck  up 
and  the  dancing  began,  but  once  or  twice  a  week  my 
studio  was  turned  into  an  art  academy  of  sorts.  I  never 
attended  any  art  school  as  a  young  man,  except  for  a 
very  brief  experience  of  an  art  school  in  Dublin,  which  I 
found  imbued  with  the  wretched  South  Kensington 
system  of  "  teaching,"  and  escaped  before  I  had  all  my 
originality  destroyed. 

When  I  had  settled  in  Newman  Street,  I  and  a  few 
fellow-artists  started  a  "  life  class "  of  our  own,  for  our 
special  study  and  benefit.  My  studio  was  selected, 
being  a  large  one.  I  supplied  the  light  and  fire,  and 
housed  the  others'  easels  and  paraphernalia.  The  others 
paid  the  model  three  or  four  shillings  an  evening  between 
them. 

All  went  well  for  a  time,  but  one  night  when  we  had 
got  well  on  with  our  work  and  our  studies  from  the  nude 
were  well  advanced,  our  model  disappointed  us,  so 


ARTISTS  AND  THEIR  STUDIOS  53 

no  work  was  done.  The  next  evening  she  had  a  bad 
toothache  after  sitting  half  an  hour,  and  the  next  evening 
she  turned  up  she  had  cramp  in  her  leg.  That  also 
broke  up  our  gathering  early  in  the  evening.  So  after 
writing  a  letter  or  two  I  put  out  the  light  in  my  studio, 
and  I  strolled  for  the  first  time  into  the  dancing  academy, 
purely  out  of  curiosity. 

A  valse  was  at  the  moment  in  full  swing,  and  I 
was  nearly  taken  off  my  feet  by  a  particularly  lively 
couple  switching  round.  The  lady  apologised.  To  my 
astonishment  she  was  our  model  with  the  cramp! 


CHAPTER  V 

STUDIO    PARTIES    AND   THE    HOGARTH    CLUB 

Rudyard  Kipling's  parents — Miss  Walton — Rose  Leclercq's  birthplace — 
Studio  parties — Music  and  gloves — Young  Beerbohm  Tree — Edwin 
A.  Abbey — From  eve  till  morn — The  Hogarth  Club — Sir  James  D. 
Linton — Fred  Barnard  and  Henry  Irving — Unlucky  Friday 

DURING  the  time  I  rented  the  studio  in  Newman  Street 
I  lived  at  a  private  hotel  in  Thavies  Inn,  Holborn  Circus, 
presided  over  by  a  very  charming  lady  from  Staffordshire, 
a  Miss  Fildes. 

I  recollect  when  I  was  there  meeting  a  very  fascinating 
couple  from  India,  Staffordshire  friends  of  Miss  Fildes. 
The  lady  was  related  to  Burne-Jones  and  her  husband 
was  head  of  the  art  school  at  Lahore.  They  spoke  a 
good  deal  about  their  little  boy,  and  showed  me  a  photo- 
graph of  him  standing  on  a  chair. 

Years  afterwards  I  met  that  boy,  and  I  told  him  how 
I  had  been  shown  his  photograph  by  his  parents.  Had 
he  been  any  one  else  I  should  have  probably  pretended 
that  I  recognised  him  by  his  early  photograph,  in  spite 
of  his  beetling  eyebrows,  heavy  moustache  and  spectacles, 
but,  fond  as  I  am  of  practical  jokes,  and  audacious  as 
I  may  be,  I  had  not  the  nerve  to  pull  the  leg  of  Rudyard 
Kipling. 

When  I  gave  up  my  studio  in  Newman  Street  I  moved 

54 


STUDIO  PARTIES  AND  THE  HOGARTH  CLUB    55 

into  Charlotte  Street,  Fitzroy  Square,  where  I  had 
the  first-floor  front  as  a  studio  and  a  bedroom  at  the 
back,  and  then  I  left  Thavies  Inn. 

One  day  on  entering  my  studio  I  found  a  very  fine  and 
charming  American  actress,  Miss  Walton,  who  had  just 
come  over  in  Sothern's  company  ("  Dundreary  Sothern  " 
and  father  of  the  present  actors)  at  the  Haymarket 
Theatre  as  his  leading  lady.  She  had  with  her  a  manu- 
script written  by  a  friend  of  hers  in  the  States,  and  she 
wanted  me  to  illustrate  it  and 
"  place "  it  for  her.  She 
was  enchanting,  and  I  was 
sorry  when  she  called  to  say 
good-bye.  It  appeared 
Sothern  and  she  had  a 
quarrel,  and  to  punish  her — 
this  was  the  lady's  version  of 
the  story — he  cast  her  for 
a  boy's  part  in  the  play  he 
was  producing,  which  she 
considered  a  degradation. 
So  she  left  the  Haymarket 
and  returned  to  America. 

My  rooms  in  Newman  Street  had  quite  a  theatrical 
flavour.  One  day  a  carriage  drove  up  and  a  typical 
middle-aged  beau  asked  if  he  could  look  round  my  studio. 
I  received  him  with  pleasure,  and  as  I  naturally  thought 
he  was  paying  me  a  compliment  and  wished  to  see  my 
efforts  in  art,  I  produced  various  ambitious  works  of  mine 
in  progress  and  placed  them  on  the  easel  and  chairs,  but 
he  never  looked  at  one — in  fact,  he  ignored  my  presence 
altogether.  "  So  this  is  the  room,"  he  soliloquised,  "  this 
is  the  room.  Ah,  she  is  a  charming  woman — charming !  " 


MISS  WALTON. 


56  MY   BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

I  followed  his  eyes,  but  I  saw  no  angel  of  any  kind 
floating  about,  so  I  ventured  to  ask  the  old  fop  what  was 
the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  The  object,  sir,  is  to  see  this  room,  for  I  am  credibly 
informed  a  lady  I  admire  as  an  actress  more  than  any 
woman  I  have  ever  seen  was  born  in  this  room." 

"  No,  the  next  room,"  I  replied.  "  Her  brother 
calling  here  one  day  informed  me  so.  He  was  born 
there,  too.  He  gave  me  a  photograph  of  his  sister  Rose, 
which  you  will  find  on  the  mantelpiece." 

Later  on  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Leclercq — 
by  far  the  greatest  impersonator  of  grande  dame  for 
years  on  our  stage — behind  the  scenes  at  the  St.  James's 
Theatre,  and  she  was  highly  amused  when  I  related 
the  incident.  She  never  met  her  admirer,  and  I  never 
saw  him  again. 

What  fine  times  we  had  in  our  studios  in  those  far- 
off  days,  to  be  sure !  We  cleared  away  the  impedimenta 
of  the  studio  of  an  evening  and  took  it  in  turn  to  give 
a  thorough  Bohemian  entertainment  to  our  mutual 
friends,  culminating  at  the  time  when  the  sending- 
in  day  of  the  Royal  Academy  had  passed.  The  wiser 
artists  escaped  to  the  country  for  pure  air  and  a  rest, 
and  only  returned  to  town  either  to  "  varnish  "  their 
pictures  on  the  walls  at  Burlington  House  or  dejectedly 
take  their  year's  work  away.  But  we  always  arranged 
at  that  time  of  the  year  to  have  something  on  every 
evening  and  provide  a  simple  and  wholesome  supper — 
plenty  to  eat,  drink,  and  smoke,  and  the  piano  tuned 
for  the  occasion. 

The  fun  usually  began  with  some  turns  with  the  gloves 
or  foils,  followed  by  a  song  or  two  and  recitations  by 
the  artist  fraternity  prior  to  the  arrival  from  the  theatre 


SIR   BEERBOHM   TREE    IN    HIS   YOUTH. 
57 


58  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

of  our  actor  friends  near  midnight.  I  recollect  a  relation 
of  mine  bringing  to  my  first  "  smoke  "  a  young  fellow 
from  the  City  whose  father  ran  a  daily  sheet,  or  sheets, 
for  there  was  more  than  one  edition  during  the  after- 
noon, known,  I  believe,  as  Beerbohm's  Gazette,  published 
for  the  benefit  of  the  corn  trade. 
This  was  Beerbohm  Tree,  a  tall,  slim, 
reddish-headed,  irresponsible  youth, 
with  his  eye  on  the  stage.  At  that 
time  he  played  in  amateur  theatricals, 
but  he  was  principally  welcome  for  his 
very  clever  imitations  of  actors.  In 
this  role  I  think  he  excelled  all  others 
I  have  seen.  In  particular  his  imita- 
tions of  James  and  Thome  in  Romulus 
and  Remus,  a  burlesque  the  present 
generation  possibly  never  heard  of. 

Among  those  who  frequented  the 
gay  Bohemian  parties  in  my  Newman 
Street  studio  was  George  Grossmith 
secundus,  and  many  entertainers  who 
were  friends  of  the  artists,  and,  as 
most  actors  and  musicians  are,  always 
willing  to  risk  their  health  in  the  thick 
atmosphere  of  smoke  in  the  overcrowded 
studios ;  but  of  all  those  who  organised 
these  Bohemian  orgies,  I  think  that  genius  Edwin  A. 
Abbey  demands  a  special  reference,  for  in  his  early 
days  in  England  he  made  Bohemia  fairly  hum. 

That  delightful  American  artist  was  born  in  Phila- 
delphia in  1852.  He  told  me  he  supported  himself 
when  a  boy  by  drawing,  principally  lettering  trades- 
men's show  tickets,  which  he  hawked  round  himself 


TREE  IMITATING 
JAMES  AND 
THORNE. 


STUDIO  PARTIES  AND  THE  HOGARTH  CLUB    59 

to  the  various  stores.  Eventually  he  practised  drawing, 
and  before  he  was  twenty  began  illustrating  for  Messrs. 
Harper  Brothers,  of  New  York.  Harpers  made  him. 
They  sent  him  to  England,  and  although  he  worked  in 
England  until  he  died,  becoming  in  time  a  member  of 
the  English  Royal  Academy,  all  his  work  went  to  America 
and  all  (or  nearly  all)  his  money  came  from  there. 
Harper  Brothers  were  his  guardian  angels. 

His  life  was  particularly  lucky.  He  was  paid  extra- 
ordinary prices  to  do  just  the  work  his  heart  desired, 
illustrating  the  Comedies  of  Shakespeare,  selections 
from  Goldsmith's  Comedies,  and  other  fascinating 
"  costume "  periods  which  are  the  artist's,  especially 
the  black-and-white  artist's,  chief  delight.  In  his  illus- 
trating work  he  was  most  happy  and  successful,  with  a 
particular  charm  all  his  own.  We  pardoned  his  abso- 
lute idealisations,  his  rendering  Falstaff  only  slightly 
"  stoutish,"  and  not  fat,  and  other  such  discrepancies. 
It  was  the  modus  o'perandi  rather  than  his  models  which 
fascinated  all  lovers  of  black-and-white  art.  As  time 
went  on  he  painted — painted  huge  pictures  of  a  decora- 
tive gallery  to  decorate  the  walls  of  American  institutions, 
and  thus,  though  it  was  not  so  successful  as  his  pen-and- 
ink  work,  he  became  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy. 
Had  he,  however,  only  painted,  he  could  never  have 
been  heard  of  in  the  same  degree.  It  was  his  work 
as  an  illustrator  which  won  him  fame  and  fortune. 

Personally  he  was  the  antithesis  of  his  work,  a  Bo- 
hemian of  the  Bohemians.  His  "  smoking  "  evenings,  to 
which  all  the  choice  spirits  of  art,  literature,  and  the 
drama  were  invited,  were  the  "  hottest "  gatherings  of 
all  my  long  experience  in  Bohemia.  They  were  unequalled 
as  luxurious  debauches,  both  in  wit  and  wine.  Once 


6o 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


his  guests  were  in  his  house  the  doors  were  locked  and 
unopened  till  "  morning  did  appear." 

I  made  Abbey's  acquaintance  at  dinner  in  the  house 
of  a  mutual  friend,  Linley  Sambourne,  of  Punch.    Abbey 


B.   A.   ABBEY  IN   A   BONNET. 


insisted  on  my  walking  round  his  way  before  going  home, 
to  see  some  illustrations  he  was  working  upon.  His 
studio  was  rather  draughty,  so  he  went  into  the  passage 
and  found  an  old  bonnet  belonging  to  his  caretaker 
which  he  put  on  to  his  head,  and  while  showing 


STUDIO  PARTIES  AND  THE  HOGARTH  CLUB    61 

me  his  fascinating   masterpieces  and  discussing   various 

Shakespearian  characters,  and  quoting  freely  from    the 

great   Bard  in  order   to 

explain  his  creations,  he 

was  all  the  time  making 

me  think  that  he  looked 

more      like      "  Charlie's 

Aunt "   than   the   great 

E.  A.  Abbey. 

The  Hogarth  Club 
flourished  in  the  great 
art  boom  of  the  seventies. 
As  the  name  indicates, 
it  was  an  artists'  club, 
and  a  thoroughly  Bo- 
hemian one.  I  was  not 
a  member ;  in  fact,  I 
made  up  my  mind  at 
that  early  age  not  to 
belong  to  any  art  club. 
After  a  long  day's  work 
I  could  see  no  relaxation 
in  talking  shop,  pleasant 
as  the  company  might 
be !  For  artists,  like 
actors,  are  so  imbued 
with  their  profession, 
they  can  talk  of  nothing 
else. 

Though   I   was  not  a 

member  of  the  Hogarth,  I  was  a  guest  at  some  of 
their  annual  soirees,  which  were  invariably  held  just 
before  the  sending-in  day  of  the  Royal  Academy. 


62  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

The  member  who  interested  me  most  keenly  of  all — 
both  as  regards  his  water-colour  paintings,  of  a  very 
high  calibre,  and  his  appearance,  which  was  extremely 
picturesque — was  James  D.  Linton.  He  was  a  typical 
Bohemian  in  appearance.  His  hair  hung  down  over 
his  shoulders,  he  favoured  a  Titian-shaped  beard  and 
moustache,  a  salmon-coloured  tie  and  brown  velvet 
coat ;  his  eyes  were  intelligent,  his  face  refined,  and  he 
smoked  good  cigars,  which  he  handed  round  in  a  liberal 
fashion. 

Irving,  Toole,  other  actors  and  some  music-hall 
"  stars "  turned  up  later  to  enliven  the  proceedings. 
One  evening,  just  as  Fred  Barnard,  the  well-known 
artist,  was  giving  his  inimitable  burlesque  of  Irving, 
Irving  himself  stalked  into  the  room.  It  was  immediately 
suggested  that  Irving  should  give  the  company  a  touch 
of  the  real  thing,  but  he  good-humouredly  replied  that 
he  must  ask  to  be  excused,  as  he  was  tired — "  tired  of 
giving  imitations  of  his  friend,  Fred  Barnard,  at  the 
Lyceum."  Irving  did  not  take  himself  so  seriously 
then  as  he  did  later  in  life,  when  he  strongly  resented 
these  imitations. 

At  rehearsal  on  the  Lyceum  stage,  a  young  actor,  a 
fresh  arrival,  was  imitating  Irving  behind  his  back  when 
the  great  man  detected  him.  "  H'm,  ah,  come  here, 
Mr.  Snooks.  I  suppose  you  consider  yourself  clever, 
eh  ?  Well,  the  fact  is,  sir,  there  is  not  room  for  two 
Irvings  on  the  Lyceum  stage,  so  you  had  better  go." 

When  a  young  man  I  was  acquainted  with  two  well- 
known  artists,  both  celebrated  landscape  painters  of 
their  day.  Though  deadly  rivals  in  their  art,  outside 
of  their  "  workshops  " — i.e.  studios — they  were  the 
best  of  friends,  and  even  travelled  together,  like  two  Dr. 


STUDIO  PARTIES  AND  THE  HOGARTH  CLUB    63 

Syntaxes,  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  not  altogether  as 
companions,  but  in  order  to  see  they  did  not  select  the 
same  subject  for  their  Academy  picture. 


BARNARD    BURLESQUING   IRVING. 


One  of  the  two — I  shall  call  him  McGilp— had  a  deep- 
rooted  superstition  that  to  start  a  fresh  picture  on  a 


64  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Friday  would  most  assuredly  result  in  some  disaster. 
So  that,  should  he  through  any  forgetfulness,  or  by  being 
led  away  by  some  artistic  impulse,  begin  a  picture  on  a 
Friday,  he  would,  once  he  discovered  his  fatal  mistake, 
destroy  his  work,  however  far  it  had  proceeded,  there 
and  then.  It  so  happened  when  taking  their  walks 
abroad  these  two  were  mutually  struck  by  a  magnificent 
view  they  suddenly  came  across.  It  was  evident  to 
each  that  the  inevitable  had  at  last  happened — the  rivals 
were  to  paint  the  same  subject.  With  grim  deter- 
mination the  two  worked  away.  It  was  the  supreme 
test  to  show  the  public  visiting  the  next  exhibition  of 
the  Royal  Academy  which  was  the  greater  artist. 

McGilp  knew  that  he  was  by  far  the  better  painter 
of  the  two.  His  rival  was  also  conscious  of  this,  and 
redoubled  his  energy  and  did  all  in  his  power  to  show 
his  skill  and  beat  his  opponent — with  the  feeling,  how- 
ever, that  the  event  would  only  make  McGilp  more 
careful  and  skilful  than  ever.  For  five  long  days  the  two 
rivals  worked  away  in  silence  ;  each  evening  they  carried 
their  large  canvases  back  to  their  lodgings  and  placed 
them  facing  the  wall  in  the  sitting-room  they  shared. 
The  sixth  day  it  rained,  so  painting  out  of  doors  being 
impossible,  they  sat  down  to  write  letters. 

Now  it  so  happened  one  of  those  tear-off  calendars  was 
on  the  mantelshelf,  and  before  McGilp  had  to  consult 
it,  his  rival  managed  to  tear  off  an  extra  date. 

After  a  time  McGilp  casually  asked  his  companion 
what  was  the  date. 

"  Why,  let  me  see,  exactly  a  week  since  we  started 
our  pictures,"  was  the  rejoinder,  as  he  looked  up  at  the 
calendar. 

McGilp's  eyes  followed  his,  he  jumped  up  with  a 


STUDIO  PARTIES  AND  THE  HOGARTH  CLUB    65 

start.  "  Great  Scott !  "  he  cried  ;  "  then  we  began  on 
a  Friday !  " 

"  If  we  did — what  does  it  matter  ?  "  was  his  friend's 
remark. 

"  Matter,  matter  !  "  moaned  McGilp.  "  Matter, 

sir —  Here  goes "  and  he  seized  a  knife  and  slashed 

the  wet  canvas  leaning  against  the  wall  to  ribbons. 

His  rival  jumped  up,  and  taking  the  calendar  from  the 
mantelshelf,  said  with  assumed  emotion  :  "  I  am  awfully- 
sorry,  old  fellow,  but  I  have  torn  off  a  date  too  many — 
it  is  not  Friday  after  all." 

McGilp,  in  despair,  picked  up  the  mutilated  canvas, 
for  a  moment  or  two  gazed  wildly  at  the  fragments, 
then  gradually  his  expression  changed  into  a  smile,  and 
he  slowly  said :  "  I  am  awfully  sorry,  old  fellow — I  have 
cut  up  the  wrong  picture — it  is  not  mine  after  all !  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

OLD    TAVERNS    AND    DEBATING   SOCIETIES 

The  old  Albion— A  sketch  on  a  shirt-front — "  Ape  "—Henry  Herman 
— Cabby's  dismay — Frequenters  of  the  Albion — Henry  Sampson — 
Edward  Ledger — "  City  of  Lushington  " — The  old  Cogers — 
"  Budding  lawyers  " — In  the  very  old  days — A  practical  joke — A 
"  sporting  "  offer — I  take  the  floor 

WHEN  I  first  knew  London  the  old  Albion  Tavern, 
directly  opposite  the  north  side  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
was  by  far  the  nearest  approach  to  the  tavern  of  the 
Georgian  period  as  regards  its  frequenters  and  the  way 
in  which  it  was  conducted.  Its  old  mahogany  tables 
were  beautifully  polished  and  divided  by  partitions  of 
mahogany ;  it  had  good  silver,  good  fare,  and  good 
company.  It  was  used  by  many  men  of  good  position. 
Having  at  that  time  no  club,  I  generally  supped  at  the 
Albion  on  Saturday  nights  alone,  for  I  had  few  acquain- 
tances ;  later  I  joined  the  Savage  and  the  Garrick  and 
the  Beefsteak  clubs,  to  find  among  the  members  nearly 
every  one  of  the  principal  habitues  of  the  Albion. 

The  first  night  I  dropped  in  for  my  supper  I  was 
struck  by  the  cosy  old-time  appearance  of  the  famous 
inn.  As  I  slipped  into  a  seat  by  an  unoccupied  table 
I  noticed  a  batch  of  celebrities  at  the  next  table,  prin- 
cipally leading  actors. 

66 


CARLO  PELLEGRINI  "  APR  "  OF  "  VANITY  FAIR.' 


68 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


The  room  was  very  quiet,  but  finally  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  murmur  of  amusement  on  the  other  side 
of  the  partition  dividing  my  table  from  the  next.  Curi- 
osity made  me  peep  over  the  partition  ;  I  then  observed 
a  foreigner,  a  rather  stout  little  man  with  hair  parted 
in  the  centre,  a  moustache,  and  speaking  with  an  unmis- 
takable broken  accent. 

"  You  fellows,  you  stop  quiet  a  minute.  I  give  him 
not  a  glass  eye,  but  a  diamond  one,  see  ?  Now  you  look 
in  the  mirror,  quick,  before  he  wake  up." 

The  foreigner  had  been 
amusing  his  friends  by 
sketching  on  a  shirt-front 
an  excellent  caricature  of 
a  man  at  a  side  table  who 
was  enjoying  forty  winks 
after  supper,  the  diamond 
stud  in  the  centre  of  the 
dress  shirt  forming  a  very 
effective  eye. 

I  soon  found  out  from 
the  waiter  the  name  of 

the  caricaturist ;   he  was  "  Ape  " — Pellegrini  of  Vanity 
Fair. 

"  I  say,  Carlo,"  said  one  of  the  party,  "  let  (I  forget 

who  the  wearer  of  the  dress  shirt  was)  show  it  to 

Herman  "  (the  subject  caricatured). 

"What,  you  fool,  you  fellow!."  jerked  out  Pellegrini, 
"  what  would  you  fellow  be  given  'im  what  you  call, 
eh,  affront !  " 

I  knew  Pellegrini  well  in  after-years,  and  can  say  that 
that  was  a  fair  sample  of  the  genial  Carlo's  wit. 
The  man  Pellegrini  caricatured  on  that  occasion  was 


APE'S   SKETCH   ON   A   SHIRT-FRONT. 


OLD   TAVERNS   AND   DEBATING  SOCIETIES    69 

one  of  the  literary  men  who  generally  wound  up  the 
night  at  the  Albion.     He  made  a  fortune  later  as  part 


"  AND   NOW   SEE  YOU'VE  DONE  IT." 


author   of   The   Silver   King — Henry   Herman — and   he 
wore  a  glass  eye. 


70  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Once  when  I  was  relating  the  incident  at  a  club — I 
think  it  was  the  Savage — Herman  vouched  for  the  story 
and  moreover  declared  he  was  the  hero.  Also  he,  to 
use  an  Irish  expression,  "  made  light  of  his  eye."  On 
one  occasion  when  riding  in  a  hansom  cab  the  driver 
used  his  whip  so  frequently  and  unprofessionally  that 
Herman  raised  the  trap  on  the  roof  and  remonstrated 
over  and  over  again,  only  receiving  abuse  in  return 
and  flicks  of  the  whip  directed  dangerously  near  his 
face.  Alighting,  Herman  held  one  hand  over  his  eye 
and  turned  the  other  towards  the  abusive  cabby.  "  Give 
me  your  number,  you  scoundrel ;  what  is  your  number  ? 
I'll  prosecute  you  for  this.  I  told  you  you  would  put 
my  eye  out  with  that  infernal  whip — and  now  see  you've 
done  it." 

Before  he  could  utter  another  word  the  driver  had 
whipped  up  his  horse  and,  with  a  face  the  picture  of 
horror,  dashed  away  without  his  fare,  whilst  Herman 
smilingly  replaced  his  glass  eye. 

Carlo  Pellegrini — "Ape" — was  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  Beefsteak  Club.  He  was  an  aristocrat,  an  Italian 
who,  having  lost  his  money,  came  to  England  and  became 
famous  as  a  caricaturist.  Whether  he  made  Vanity 
Fair  or  Vanity  Fair  made  him  is  a  question  I  need  not 
debate.  Thomas  Gibson  Bowles  was  certainly  "  Ape's  " 
best  friend,  but  he  had  many  others,  for  he  was  a  universal 
favourite.  If  kings  of  old  had  their  jesters,  clubs  of 
to-day  have  their  jesters  too.  Pellegrini  was  a  club 
jester.  Nothing  he  said  gave  offence.  He  said  every- 
thing in  such  a  quaint  un-English  way  that  every  remark 
of  his  was  greeted  with  a  roar  ;  as  a  caricaturist  he  was 
inimitable — it  was  cruel  uncompromising  caricature, 
beautifully  reproduced  and  printed  by  Vincent  Brooks. 


OLD    TAVERNS   AND    DEBATING   SOCIETIES    71 

Pellegrini  was  the  Whistler  of  caricature,  and  of 
epigram  or  what  was  accepted  as  epigram,  which,  if 
delivered  by  an  Englishman  without  Pellegrini's  accent 
and  foreign  mannerism  might  strike  one  as  rather  coarse 
commonplaces.  Pellegrini  prided  himself  on  never 
possessing  a  sketch-book ;  he  said  that  he  carried  his 
impression  of  his  subjects  in  his  head.  In  that  respect 
he  was  a  conjuror,  for  when  the  poor  fellow  was  ill  in 
his  rooms  in  Mortimer  Street,  and  one  of  his  club 
friends  called  to  see  him,  and,  discovering  a  pile  of  soiled 
shirts  in  a  corner  of  Pellegrini's  bedroom,  began  to  sort 
them  out  for  the  laundress,  "  Ape  "  jumped  up  in  his 
bed  and  cried : 

"  You  fellow,  what  are  you  doing  ?  You  send  them 
to  the  wash — never  !  They  are  my  stock-in-trade." 

On  every  right-hand  cuff  were  sketched  memoranda 
for  the  portraits  he  "  carried  in  his  head." 

F.  B.  Chatterton,  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre 
when  I  knew  the  Albion,  joined  with  two  others  the  trio 
responsible  for  the  pantomime :  J.  R.  Planche  who  wrote 
the  book  and  Beverly  who  painted  the  scenes.  Planche's 
pen  was  always  delightful,  and  Beverly's  brush  has 
never  been  equalled.  But  Chatterton  was  not  successful. 
Chatterton  had  many  skirmishes  with  his  performers — 
he  was  probably  the  last  of  the  bullying,  coarse,  ill-tem- 
pered managers.  His  pen,  confined  to  the  office,  became 
delightfully  ineffective;  in  fact  it  was  he  who  said 
"  Shakespeare  spells  ruin."  But  Shakespeare  did  not 
write  pantomimes,  and  it  was  his  failure  in  the  great 
Christmas  festival  which  eventually  ruined  him. 

Among  the  younger  members  of  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession who  frequented  this  inn-club,  the  Albion,  was 
Charles  Warner,  who  was  then  a  "  leading  juvenile," 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


and  just  as  intense  and  self-conscious  as  in  after -years 
when  he  became  famous  as  Coupeau  in  Drink,  the 
dramatised  version  of  Zola's  UAssommoir,  by  Charles 
Reade.  Warner  ordered  his  refreshment  with  such 
fervour  that  it  might  be  imagined  he  was  demanding 
poison,  and  handled  his  knife 
and  fork  with  the  tragic  ges~ 
tures  with  which  Macbeth 
might  have  seized  the  daggers- 

I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Henry  Sampson — who  wrote 
under  the  nom-de-plume  of 
"  Pendragon,"  and  was 
founder  of  The  Referee — in  a 
peculiar  way.  He  was  stand- 
ing at  the  bar  of  the  Albion 
discussing  athletics  and  pro- 
pounding some  theory  on  the 
qualifications  necessary  for 
running  races,  and  he  turned 
round  to  find  some  one  who 
would  serve  as  an  illustration. 
It  will  amuse  all  who  know 
me  to  learn  that  he  selected 
me — I  was  then  young  and 
very  thin ! 

"  I  do  not  know  that  young 
man,"  remarked  Sampson,  "  but  he  would  make  a 
sprinter,"  and  he  pointed  out  that  in  proportion  to 
my  height — five  feet  two  and  a  half — my  chest  de- 
velopment and  my  length  of  leg  from  hip  to  knee  were, 
among  other  points,  those  of  a  runner. 

Strange  to  say,  his  remarks  were  justified,  for  as  a  boy 


CHARLES  WARNER   ORDERING 
HIS  SUPPER. 


OLD   TAVERNS   AND   DEBATING  SOCIETIES    73 

I  was  never  beaten  in  a  race ;  I  trained  for  running,  and 
I  loved  it. 

David  James,  who  looked  like  a  drummer  or  commercial 
man  showing  London  life  to  his  clerk,  and  James  Thome, 
were  both  meekness  personified,  though  they  coined 
money  with  their  performance  of  Our  Boys  at  the 
Vaudeville.  Edward  Ledger,  the  proprietor  of  'The 
Era,  known  as  "  the  Actor's  Bible,"  smiled  on  the  com- 
pany. But  Ledger  has  long  discontinued  his  connec- 
tion with  the  theatrical  profession — I  saw  him  quite 
recently  at  a  club  in  the  West  End  looking  over  'The 
Era,  in  a  very  different  environment  to  that  of  the 
Albion  in  the  good  old  days. 

Many  years  before  I  made  the  Parliament  at  West- 
minster my  happy  hunting-ground,  I  paid  particular 
attention  to  the  Parliaments  in  Bohemia,  the  best 
known  probably  being  "  Ye  Ancient  Society  of  Cogers," 
though  the  Temple  Discussion  Forum,  held  at  the 
Green  Dragon  in  Fleet  Street,  was  in  my  early  days 
in  London  equally  celebrated,  besides  being  older  by 
one  hundred  years,  and  for  a  long  time  its  popular 
chairman,  "  Old  Ross,"  ensured  a  big  attendance. 

I  was  also  early  introduced  into  the  "  City  of  Lush- 
ington,"  and  shown,  among  its  many  theatrical  relics, 
the  cast  of  Edmund  Kean's  face  and  also  the  jealously 
cherished  dent  in  the  wainscotting  caused  by  Edmund 
Kean  hurling  a  pewter  pot  at  the  head  of  one  of  the 
"Aldermen."  This  "City"  consisted  of  the  back 
parlour  of  the  Harp,  a  public-house  which  up  to  1902 
stood  next  to  the  stage  door  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre. 

The  famous  Sheridan  was  placidly  enjoying  his  pipe 
and  his  glass  when  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane,  of 
which  he  was  lessee,  burst  into  flames,  and  the  messenger 


74 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


rushed  with  horror  and  distraction  to  inform  Sheridan 
of  the  fact,  and  was  quietly  informed  :  "  Well,  what  of 
that  ?  Cannot  a  man  sit  in  peace  by  his  own  fireside  ?  " 

I  remember 
"doing"  these 
mock  parlia- 
ments very 
thoroughly  in 
company  with 
a  charming 
American  who 
wrote  an  ac- 
count of  them 
for  Harper's 
Magazine  whilst 
I  made  the 
sketches.  It 
added  greatly  to 
my  interest  in 
the  subject  be- 
ing able  to 
compare  notes 
with  a  writer 
from  the  New 
World,  who, 
like  all  Ameri- 
cans of  literary 
or  artistic  tem- 
perament, loved 
the  associations  of  all  these  quaint  old-time  retreats  of 
Bohemia  in  London.  This  article  appeared  in  the  late 
eighties,  quite  thirty  years  ago.  I  had  been  an  occasional 
visitor  to  these  Bohemian  Parliaments  for  some  time,  in 


EDMUND   KEAN'S  TABLET  AND   MASK   IN  THE 
"  CITY   OF  LUSHINGTON." 


OLD   TAVERNS   AND   DEBATING  SOCIETIES    75 

particular  to  the  "  Old  Cogers "  before  it  moved  away 
from  Shoe  Lane  to  its  present  quarters.  I  found  them 
rich  in  character  subjects,  for  among  them  were  men 
of  all  ages,  classes,  and  conditions,  including  well-to-do 
tradesmen,  budding  lawyers,  newspaper  reporters,  clerks, 
and  apparently  a  small  sprinkling  of  artisans  or  petty 


COGERS. 


tradesmen.     Also  there  were  a  good   many  whose  oc- 
cupations it  would  be  difficult  to  guess : 

A  place  there  is,  not  far  from  fam'd  Fleet  Street, 
Where  youthful  Whigs  and  brawling  patriots  meet ; 
Thither  the  City  spouter  wends  his  way, 
To  waste  the  night  with  profitless  display. 

There  is  no  doubt  the  "  budding  lawyers "  found  the 
Cogers  Hall  particularly  useful  for  the  practice  of  speak- 
ing in  public.  I  know  that  Sir  Edward  Clarke  when  he 
was  living  as  a  young  pressman,  and  at  the  same  time 
studying  for  the  Bar  (at  which  he  became  so  famous), 


76  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

found  it  an  excellent  place  to  study  for  parliamentary 
debating,  in  which  he  was  equally  successful.  I  am  not 
quite  sure  whether  Sir  Frank  Lockwood  ever  addressed 
the  Cogers,  but  I  know  he  had  been  there,  for  he  and  I 
were  discussing  the  place  one  evening,  and  he  drew 
these  Cogers  from  memory.  That  such  young  men 
still  find  their  mock  parliaments  advantageous  is  illus- 
trated by  the  fact  that  the  shining  light  of  the  last  one  I 
attended  was  the  present  Lord  Chief  Justice,  Lord  Reading. 
I  think  this  has  always  been  so,  at  least  as  regards  the 
Cogers,  for  I  came  across  a  very  curious  account  of  the 
Cogers  in  a  book  published  ninety  years  ago,  in  which 
it  says : 

"  Among  the  various  convivial  meetings  with  which 
this  Metropolis  abounds,  none,  upon  several  accounts, 
is  more  worthy  of  a  visit  than  Coger's  Hall.  At  most 
of  the  other  places  of  evening  entertainment,  singing 
forms  one  of  the  principal  attractions  to  the  company ; 
but  in  the  Coger's  Hall,  political  discussion  is  the  order 
of  the  night,  although  it  is  somewhat  of  the  noisiest 
kind,  and  although  from  the  vast  number  of  boisterous 
radicals  who  attend  the  room,  nothing  goes  down  in 
it  but  revolutionary  sentiments  and  democratic  toasts. 
Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated of  our  city  orators  have  acquired  their  eloquence 
in  that  far-famed  school  of  Cockney  declamation  ;  which, 
however,  has  degenerated  into  a  mere  bear-garden." 

The  Society  of  Cogers,  from  a  prominent  announce- 
ment over  the  mantelpiece,  appears  to  have  been  first 
established  in  1756. 

While  "  My  Grand,"  as  the  President  is  called,  is  in 
the  chair,  the  Company,  according  to  the  regulations, 
one  and  all  doff  their  hats,  a  rule  which,  I  believe,  is 


OLD    TAVERNS   AND    DEBATING   SOCIETIES    77 

not  enforced  in  any  other  convivial  meeting  in  London ; 
but  here  it  is  not  allowed  to  be  violated  for  one  instant. 

Late  one  evening,  as  I  was  passing,  I  think  it  was 
Cogers  Hall,  or  it  may  have  been  one  of  the  pther 
debating  societies  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  noticed  four 
or  five  young  gentlemanly  dressed  men,  either  students 
of  the  Temple  or 
young  medicos, 
speaking  to  a  sand- 
wich  man.  As 
board-men  did  not 
walk  the  streets  in 
that  neighbourhood 
at  that  late  hour, 
I  stopped  to  watch 
the  game. 

"  That  is  capital, 
Jack !  You  look  fine. 
Keep  yourself  warm 
till  the  time  comes 
and  don't  go  too  far 
away,"  I  heard  one 
of  them  say. 

The  others  then 
entered  the  Hall, 
and  I  followed.  A 
debate  was  in  full  swing  and,  as  usual,  some  of  the 
speakers  were  excellent,  but  they  seemed  to  have  no 
effect  on  the  students,  whom  I  was  still  watching.  They 
pooh-poohed  the  speaker  who  was  "  orating,"  an  old 
hand  at  this  place,  and  interrupted  him  with  cries  of 
"  rot,"  "  bosh,"  "  piffle,"  etc.  The  chairman's  calls  to 
order  were  of  no  avail.  At  last  one  of  the  students 


COGERS   SKETCHED   BY   SIR  FRANK 
LOCKWOOD. 


78  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

said,  "  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  it  is  too  much  to  expect  us 
to  listen  to  such  twaddle.  I'll  make  a  bet  with  anyone 
present  the  first  man  in  the  street  to  pass  will,  whoever 
he  may  be,  make  a  better  speech  than  this."  A  sporting- 
looking,  bucolic-looking  man  rose  and  said  that  no  bets 


A   COGER  MAKING   A   SPEECH. 


were  allowed  to  be  made,  but  he  would  meet  the 
stranger's  wishes  at  the  bar  outside.  This  was  tanta- 
mount to  the  permission  of  admitting  "  the  man  in  the 
street,"  who,  of  course,  turned  out  to  be  the  sandwich- 
man. 

I   must  say  the  young  fellow  played  the  part  well. 


OLD   TAVERNS  AND   DEBATING  SOCIETIES    79 

His  assumption  of  nervousness  and  timidity  was  good, 
and  when  the  subject  of  the  debate  was  stated  his 
rather  awkward  attempt  to  reply,  and  then  his  warming 
up  (he  was  evidently  prepared  for  the  subject  of  the 
debate  of  the  evening),  and  his  eloquence  and  epigram, 


THE   BOARD-MAN. 


given  in  his  best  Oxford  debating  style,  electrified  his 
hearers.  After  a  really  fine  peroration  the  sandwichman 
sat  down.  The  sporting  man  had  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
ready  to  pay  up — outside,  when  I  thought  the  joke  was 
a  mean  one  and  in  bad  taste,  and  I  rose  and  for  the  only 
time  in  my  life  spoke  in  a  place  of  that  kind. 


8o  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

"  Gentlemen,"  I  said,  "  this  is  a  practical  joke.  I  am 
but  a  young  man,  but  I  like  fair  play,  and  the  gentlemen 
who  have  spoken  so  well  to-night  have,  I  think,  been 
insulted.  The  brilliant  young  man  who  has  just  sat  down 
is  not  a  stranger  to  the  other  young  men,  and  further- 
more, I,  as  an  artist,  can  prove  it.  I  have  observed,  as 
you  all  can  if  you  look  at  the  young  man's  shoulders, 
that  there  is  absolutely  no  sign  of  any  straps  ever  having 
rested  upon  them.  Were  he  a  genuine  sandwichman 
the  cloth  on  the  shoulders  would  shine  and  show  signs 
of  wear." 

The  speaker  who  had  been  so  rudely  interrupted  came 
to  me  and  said  that  I  had  missed  my  vocation  in  life 
and  advised  me  to  study  for  the  Bar  (he  was  a  solicitor, 
I  believe),  and  in  truth  I  often  regret  I  did  not  take 
his  advice. 

I  looked  in  at  either  the  Cogers  or  the  Green  Dragon 
one  evening  with  my  friend,  Richard  Dowling,  the  novel- 
ist, and  we  were  both  hugely  amused  by  a  discussion 
on  the  rival  merits  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray.  Dowling 
was  fond  of  recalling  the  following  opinion  quoted  by 
one  of  the  Cogers :  "  It's  in  'is  wonderful  insight  into 
'uman  nature  that  Dickens  gets  the  pull  over  Thackeray  ; 
but  on  t'other  hand  it's  the  brilliant  shafts  o'  satire, 
t'gether  with  a  keen  sense  o'  'umour,  that  Dickery 
gets  the  pull  over  Thackens.  It's  just  this :  Thickery 
is  the  humorist,  and  Dackens  is  the  saterist.  But, 
after  all,  it's  'bsur'  to  instoot  any  comparison  between 
Dackery  and  Thickens,"  which,  after  all,  is  a  very  fair 
specimen  of  the  after-dinner  oratory  we  were  accustomed 
to  hear  in  the  discussion  forums  of  Bohemia. 


CHAPTER   VII 

FROM    MY   STUDIO    WINDOW 

Robertsonian  comedies  at  the  "  Dust  Hole  "—Return  to  nature— My 
double—"  Whistler  "  in  the  Circus—"  A  jolly  good  sort  "—Family 
portraits — "Well  caught" — George  Grossmith— The  drayman 
and  the  nuts 

WHEN  I  came  to  London  the  Bancrofts  were  still  in  the 
old  Prince  of  Wales  Theatre,  familiarly  known  as  the 
"  Dust  Hole,"  and  playing  a  series  of  revivals  of  poor 
Tom  Robertson's  delightful  society  comedies,  Caste, 
School,  etc. 

The  delight  caused  by  these  Meissonier-like  pictures  of 
English  life  in  the  sixties  and  seventies  can  hardly  be 
conceived  by  playgoers  of  to-day — particularly  if  they 
have  only  seen  them  when  revived.  I  know  I  took  my 
own  young  family  to  see  a  revival  of  Ours,  I  think  at  the 
old  Globe  Theatre.  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh,  whom  they 
knew,  was  playing  Lady  Bancroft's  part ;  I  forget  the 
others,  but  they  were  all  excellent.  The  effect  upon 
the  rising  generation  was  that  the  humour  did  not 
make  them  even  smile,  and  the  pathos  made  them 
laugh.  Perhaps  this  was  inevitable,  for  plays  of  this 
class  go  out  of  fashion  more  quickly  than  pictures  or 
novels,  and  the  public  taste  changes  with  the  time. 
6  si 


82  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Robertson  undoubtedly  understood  the  taste  of  his 
time.  Sir  Squire  Bancroft,  in  The  Bancrofts'  Recollec- 
tions of  Sixty  Tears,  writes  thus  of  the  generality  of 
plays  before  he  discovered  Robertson  :  "  Many  so-called 
pictures  of  life  presented  on  the  stage  were  as  false  as 
they  were  conventional.  The  characters  lived  in  an 
unreal  world,  and  the  code  of  ethics  on  the  stage  was 
the  result  of  warped  conditions." 

"  It  was  truly  said,"  adds  Sir  Squire,  "  that  the 
author  of  Society  rendered  a  public  service  by  pro- 
viding an  entertainment  which  suited  their  sympathies 
and  tastes.  The  return  to  nature  was  the  great  need  of 
the  stage,  and  happily  he  came  to  help  supply  it  at  the 
right  moment."  This  was  true  enough  of  that  time. 
"  Their  sympathies,"  however,  were  mid- Victorian,  and 
as  out  of  touch  with  the  sympathies  of  to-day  as  the 
songs  and  paintings  of  that  time. 

At  a  later  period  I  frequently  met  a  son  of  Robertson. 
His  father  had  then  been  dead  some  years,  and  our 
meetings  were  always  painful.  He  invariably  started 
when  he  saw  me,  turned  pale,  and  almost  fainted. 
"  Oh !  Mr.  Furniss,  I  wish  you  had  never  been  born. 
I  thought  you  were  my  dear  father,  and  he  had  come 
to  life  again ! "  This  happened  so  often  that,  as  I  had 
never  seen  his  father,  I  asked  those  who  had  known 
him  if  I  resembled  the  dramatist,  and  they  one  and  all 
assured  me  that  I  was  not  a  bit  like  poor  Tom.  Tom 
Robertson  had  red  hair  and  a  reddish  beard,  as  I  had 
then,  but  he  was  a  much  bigger  man  than  I,  and  of 
Semitic  appearance.  So  the  "  strong  resemblance  "  seen 
by  young  Robertson  remained  a  mystery. 

In  penning  one's  recollections  of  long  ago  it  is  curious 
how  the  mention  of  one  name  or  one  incident  may  lead 


FROM  MY  STUDIO  WINDOW  83 

to    another.     The   word    "  resemblance "    switches    me 
from  Bancroft  to  Whistler. 

One  evening  I  was  dining  with  Sir  Squire  Bancroft 
at  his  charming  h>use  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  seated 
next  to  me  was  Val  Prinsep,  the  Royal  Academician, 
who  at  once  said  to  me,  "  I  say,  Furniss,  is  it  you  who 
has  started  the  rumour  that  Jimmy  Whistler  has  thrown 
up  painting  and  joined  a  travelling  circus  ?  " 

I  had  to  plead  guilty.  This  is  a  very  good  instance 
of  how  a  small  and  very  in- 
nocent joke  may  expand  into 
an  apparent  fact  of  appalling 
dimensions.  It  happened  in 
this  way. 

Sir  Edgar  Boehm,  R.A.,  the 
most  favoured,  most  delight- 
ful of  men,  but  one  of  the 
worst  sculptors  of  the  Vic- 
torian Era,  as  one  can  judge 
by  many  of  our  public  statues, 
had  a  charming  daughter,  who, 
when  she  married,  was  given 
as  a  wedding  present  by  her 
father  the  house  in  which  he  lived  in  Sussex.  Shortly 
after  her  marriage  I  rented  that  house  for  several 
months.  My  children  were  young,  and  I  took  them  all 
to  a  travelling  circus  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  with 
them  Boehm's  married  daughter  and  her  young  brother, 
both  of  whom  had  been  brought  up  in  the  inner  circle 
of  the  art  world. 

I  was  struck  by  a  strong  resemblance  borne  by  a 
gentleman  performing  on  the  tight-rope  to  Whistler. 
So,  in  pure  mischief,  I  said  to  young  Boehm,  "  See* 


TOM   ROBERTSON. 


84  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

that  performer  is  a  friend  of  your  father's — it  is  Jimmy 

Whistler." 

"  So  it  is,"  cried  the  youth. 

"  Yes ;   your   father   will   be    sorry   to   hear    such   a 

clever    man    has    become    a    member    of    a    travelling 

circus." 

Young  Boehm  was  so  interested  and  excited  that  I 

had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  prevent  him  jumping  into 

the  ring  when  "  Whistler  "  jumped  off  the  wire  after 

his  show.     In  fact  he  urged  the  reason  that  "  Whistler 

was  one  of  dad's  pals,  and, 
as  he  knew  him,  Whistler 
would  be  jolly  surprised 
to  see  him  appear,"  but  I 
did  not  give  him  the 
chance.  That  the  youth 
believed  he  had  seen  Jimmy 
Whistler  perform  was  evi- 
dent by  the  manner  it  was 
repeated  afterwards  in  art 
circles,  and  so  finally 

"  WHISTLER  "   ON   THE   TIGHT-ROPE.  .        , 

reached  my  ears. 

Sir  Squire  Bancroft,  then  Mr.  Sidney  Bancroft,  had 
a  personality  all  his  own.  He  played  the  swell  of 
the  period  in  a  natural,  gentlemanly  way  in  place  of  a 
burlesque  (in  the  same  way  that  Sothern's  Lord 
Dundreary  was  a  revelation).  It  added  greatly  to  the 
phenomenal  success  of  the  Robertsonian  comedies. 

My  studio,  as  I  have  said  before,  was  close  to  the  old 
Prince  of  Wales  Theatre,  and  I  frequently  saw  Bancroft 
passing  by.  I  remember  a  friend  being  asked  what  he 
was  like.  "  Oh,  a  jolly  good  sort  for  a  swell,  a  sort  of 
man  who  disdained  dilly-dallying  on  the  kerb,  but 


FROM  MY  STUDIO  WINDOW  85 

crossed  the  road  under  the  horses'  heads  as  if  he  wanted 
to  get  to  the  other  side." 

Some  ladies  were  having  afternoon  tea  in  my  studio 
when  I  saw  Bancroft  on  the  other  side  making  his  way 
to  Oxford  Street.  I  pointed  him  out  to  my  friends, 
who  were  keen  theatre-goers,  but  only  knew  the  stage 

from  the  front,  and  they 
instantly  exclaimed, 
"  That  Mr.  Bancroft ! 
We  do  not  think  much 
of  him  !  Why,  he  is  just 
the  same  in  the  play ! 
We  know  many  young 
men  who,  if  they  walked 
on  to  the  stage,  would 
be  just  like  him."  A  re- 
mark which  shows  that 
true-to-life,  natural  acting 
was  neither  understood 
nor  appreciated  in  the 
comedies  of  those  days. 

The  Bancroft  Com- 
pany at  the  Prince  of 
Wales  was  quite  like  a 
family  party.  I  ventured 
one  day  to  remark  upon 
the  fact  to  a  lady  at  one  of  my  studio  parties. 

"  Quite  so ;  no  doubt  you  are  right,"  she  replied ; 
"  we  often  go  to  see  them,  but  why  should  the  performers, 
if  they  are  a  family  party  as  you  say,  put  up  large  photo- 
graphs of  their  sons  and  other  members  of  their  home 
circle  for  the  public  to  gaze  at  in  the  vestibules  of  the 
theatres.  Young  Mr.  Hare,  for  instance  !  " 


MR.    SIDNEY   BANCROFT. 


86  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

This  was  actually  a  reference  to  a  portrait  of  John  Hare 
himself.  Gilbert,  his  son,  a  capital  actor  of  a  later  date, 
was  not  yet  born ;  but  no  one  who  then  saw  Sir  John 
Hare  playing  the  wonderful  old-men  parts  which  made 
him  famous  could  credit  him  with  being  so  young  an 
actor. 

It  was  from  the  window  of  my  Newman  Street  studio 
that  I  saw  a  "  swell's  "  tall  hat  blow  off  and  dance  down 
the  pavement.  It  belonged  to  Frank  Dicksee,  now  the 
well-known  Royal  Academician,  who  instantly  gave  chase 
to  it.  The  Dicksees,  I  may  add,  lived  in  Fitzroy  Square 
at  the  top  of  my  street. 

Opposite  to  my  studio  was  a  French  restaurant,  and 
as  it  was  not  long  after  the  Paris  Commune  several  French 
refugees  hung  about  it.  The  sight  of  this  new  silk  hat 
twirling  towards  them  caused  great  excitement.  They 
all  gallantly  faced  it  on  its  wild  career  ;  one,  braver  than 
the  rest,  rushed  forward  and  brought  his  foot  straight 
down  on  the  crown  and  struck' an  attitude  of  triumph. 

In  those  days  every  one  who  wished  to  appear  respect- 
able, from  peers  to  cads,  wore  the  "  silk  hat,"  "  tall  hat," 
"  topper,"  "  chimney  pot,"  or  whatever  one  chose  to 
call  it.  Although  most  men  wore  them,  comparatively 
few  of  the  lower  class  could  afford  new  ones.  "  Bet  you 
a  new  hat,"  was  a  common  remark,  and  really  meant, 
"  Will  bet  you  a  guinea." 

It  was  a  fine  but  windy  day,  after  a  long  spell  of  wet 
weather.  The  London  streets  were  in  a  filthy  condition. 
I  was  standing  at  the  window  when  I  saw  a  brand 
new  hat  carried  by  the  wind  into  the  roadway  across  to 
the  other  side,  and  a  Pickwickian,  stoutish  gentleman 
dodging  the  traffic  after  it. 
His  hat  came  capering  on,  under  the  horses,  and 


FROM  MY  STUDIO  WINDOW  87 

between  the  wheels,  uninjured.  A  seedy-looking  in- 
dividual on  my  side  of  the  way  stepped  off  the  pathway 
to  arrest  the  hat  in  its  wild  career,  in  the  attitude  of  a 
goalkeeper  in  a  football  match  about  to  receive  the  ball. 
The  hat  came  right  under  a  brewer's  cart ;  in  an  instant 
the  "  catcher  " — to  use  an  American  baseball  term — 
caught  it  in  one  hand,  with  the  other  he  removed  his 
own  shabby  "  tile  "  off  his  head,  and  placed  it  in  some 
inches  of  mud  in  front  of  the  hind  wheel  of  the  brewer's 
cart,  and  walked  on.  No  one,  I  think,  saw  the  incident 
but  myself.  The  owner  of  the  new  hat  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  dray,  waiting  for  the  juggernaut  of 
beer  to  roll  on.  There  lay  a  hat  as  flat  as  a  pancake, 
covered  in  mud.  Thinking  it  was  his  own,  the  "  swell " 
walked  on  to  find  another  hat  shop. 

Mentioning  a  dray-cart  reminds  me  of  another  act  of 
remarkable  quick-wittedness  I  witnessed. 

It  was  the  custom  in  the  old  days,  before  clubs  sprang 
up  in  London  Bohemia,  to  purchase  during  the  walnut 
season  nuts  in  Covent  Garden  Market,  and  to  adjourn  to 
a  well-known  establishment  famous  for  its  old  port 
"  out  of  the  wood  "  served  in  "  dock  glasses."  George 
Grossmith  Secundus — father  of  the  present  actor  of  the 
name — was  an  inveterate  practical  joker.  He  was  then 
The  Times  reporter  at  Bow  Street  Police  Court  close  by, 
and  one  day,  as  I  was  in  company  with  him,  discussing 
our  "  Walnuts  and  Wine,"  two  huge  draymen  were  in 
the  act  of  lowering  barrels  of  wine  into  the  cellars  under 
our  open  window.  The  irrepressible  Grossmith  amused 
himself  pelting  the  draymen  with  the  shells  of  the  wal- 
nuts, much  to  the  annoyance  of  the  giant  drayman  who 
had  his  back  to  us.  "  Blow  me,  Bill,  'ow's  that  ?  Where's 
them  a-comin'  from  ?  "  and  so  on.  "  G.  G."  was 


GEORGE  GROSSMITH. 
88 


FROM  MY  STUDIO  WINDOW  89 

delighted — shells,  and  more  shells,  unbroken  walnuts,  and 
then  high-explosive  laughter. 

"  A  woa  !  above  ther  !  "  came  from  the  cellar  below. 
We  then  heard  the  rattle  of  the  barrel  descending  pre- 
cipitately, a  rope  flying  round,  and  a  man  running — the 
pelted  drayman  had,  in  fact,  spotted  his  assailant,  who  was 
at  the  moment  seated  with  his  back  to  the  door  quite 
unconscious  of  his  danger.  Grossmith  turned  round  just 
in  time  to  see  the  huge,  bared  arm  of  the  giant  dray- 
man in  the  air,  ready  to  descend  with  the  force  and 
fury  of  the  angry  one.  We  might  never  have  enjoyed 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  operas  at  the  Savoy  in  later  years 
if  he  had  not,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  held  up  his  finger, 
and  smilingly  cried,  "  Port  or  sherry  ?  "  The  sinewy 
arm  relaxed.  "  Well,  sir,  thanks,  I  like  port,  I  do.  My 
pal  outside,  he  is  partial  to  sherry." 

George  Grossmith  had  many  good  stories  to  tell ;  one 
that  always  amused  me  was  his  story,  which  he  related  as 
a  true  one,  of  a  costermonger  who  thought  he  would 
enjoy  his  holiday  taking  a  walk  through  the  West  End. 
"  Yes,  Mr.  Grossmith,  I  dress  myself  up  spiff,  and  goes 
up  Regency  Street.  I  was  a-lookin'  at  some  photer- 
graafs  in  a  shop  winder  when  a  swell  bloke  wid  a  lydy 
on  his  arm  gives  me  a  shove  and  sends  my  'ead  clean 
through  that  'ere  winder.  Did  I  cuss  and  swear  ?  Did 
I  use  bad  langvidge  ?  No.  I  remembered  w'ere  I  was, 
so  with  the  blood  all  a-streamin'  down  my  face,  I  rose 
my  'at  graceful  an'  says,  '  I  beg  your  parding.'  That's 
all  I  says,  *  I  beg  your  parding.'  I  crushed  'im  with 
breedirt  \  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SOME    ODD    CONTRASTS 

When  all  were  "  boys  " — J.  L.  Toole  and  Seymour  Hicks  at  the  Garrick 
Club — Revolt  from  inaction — Barrie's  caution — "  Old  Bucky  " — 
Tree  and  the  limelight — Jekylls  and  Hydes — Maarten  Maartens 
— A  luxurious  "  shanty  " — Irving's  favourite  supper 

THE  older  Bohemia  was  pervaded  with  an  atmosphere  of 
perpetual  youth,  or  at  any  rate  an  assumption  of  it.  In 
Bohemia  the  old  croakers  and  hypochrondriacs  one  meets 
at  Buxton  or  Llandrindod  were  unknown.  They  were 
all  "  boys,"  but,  like  the  stableyard  "  boy  "  of  the  old 
coaching  days,  the  "  boy  "  on  the  lugger,  or  the  "  boy  " 
in  a  Kimberley  diamond  mine,  some  of  them  had  passed 
the  allotted  three-score  years  and  ten.  To  have  only 
one  score  of  years  to  one's  credit  and  still  to  be  one  of 
them  was  an  item  of  not  the  slightest  significance.  They 
were  all  "  boys."  Their  motto  was  "  Let  us  be  merry 
to-day,  for  to-morrow  we  may  be  in  the  Charterhouse." 
This  indeed  was  a  comfortable  haven  of  rest,  but  to  gain 
admittance  thereto  meant  being  ticketed  "  old,"  and  to 
be  acknowledged  decrepit  meant  ostracism  as  far  as 
Bohemia  was  concerned.  When  I  was  a  boy  it  was  the 
pace  that  killed  many  and  many  a  genius  in  the  world  of 
art  and  literature. 

It  is  an  unfortunate  fact — and  somewhat  disconcerting 

9o 


SOME  ODD   CONTRASTS  91 

to  one  chronicling  his  experience  of  men  over  half  a 
century — that  boys  will  not  remain  boys,  but  grow  into 
middle  age  before  they  can  be  placed  in  the  portrait 
gallery. 

Yet  how  well  I  remember  young  Forbes  Robertson 
before  he  ever  walked  the  stage,  then  an  art  student, 
sitting  in  his  studio  in  Bloomsbury  surrounded  by  fair 


J.   L.    TOOLE   AND   SEYMOUR   HICKS. 


admirers ;  another  artist,  Weedon  Grossmith,  who  has 
been  known  for  years  now  as  one  of  the  funniest  actors 
on  the  stage — alas !  since  I  wrote  these  lines,  poor  Weedon 
is  no  more — and  Bernard  Partridge,  who  was  an  actor 
when  I  first  saw  him  years  ago,  and  is  now  a  "  veteran  " 
on  the  staff  of  Punch. 

I  remember  one  evening  at  the  Garrick  Club  J.  L.  Toole 
bringing  into  supper  a  bright-eyed,  modest  youth  of  the 
name  of  Hicks,  who  night  after  night  sat  next  to  Toole 
without  uttering  a  word.  Of  those  nights  (and  what  de- 


93  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

lightful  suppers  they  were,  too,  in  those  days)  Seymour 
Hicks  writes :  "  What  hours  we  used  to  keep !  He 
(Toole)  could  not  go  to  bed.  I  have  sat  up  with  him 
at  a  famous  club  (the  Garrick)  six  times  a  week  till  five 
every  morning  month  in,  month  out."  Yet,  in  spite  of 
it,  Seymour  Hicks  has  been  for  years  the  most  volatile 
and  delightful  favourite  of  the  theatre-going  public. 

Actors  of  the  Seymour  Hicks  type  came  as  a  real 
relief  after  a  depressing  craze  of  "  reserved  force."  De- 
lightful Charles  Coghlan — perhaps  through  his  ambition 
being  on  the  wane,  or  probably  because  he  suffered  from 
ennui — originated  "  reserved  force,"  and  it  grew ;  in- 
action, long  pauses,  low  tones,  were  considered  force  ;  it 
really  was  nothing  but  depressing  laziness.  I  was  seated 
in  the  stalls  during  one  of  those  funereal  tragedies — or 
were  they  comedies  ? — when  some  people  in  front  of 
me  rose  from  their  seats  quite  seriously,  and  an  old  dame 
chaperoning  the  party  remarked  audibly  enough  to  be 
heard  on  the  stage,  "  Come,  dears,  we  had  better  come 
again  when  the  performers  know  their  parts." 

I  mention  in  another  place  the  first  contribution  of  a 
young  journalist  who  used  me  as  a  peg  upon  which  to 
write  a  clever  mock  interview,  and  is  now  Sir  James 
Barrie,  Bart.  When  Barrie  was  producing  his  charming 
play  Quality  Street,  he  cast  young  Seymour  Hicks  for  the 
young  lover.  Some  one  spoke  to  Barrie  about  the 
selection — "  Seymour  Hicks  can  never  keep  still,  he  is 
far  too  modern."  "  Ah,  weel,"  remarked  Barrie,  rolling 
his  head  slowly,  "  I  thought  of  that — so  I  have  one  of 
the  officer's  arms  in  a  sling  just  to  curb  him  a  bit." 
According  to  Moy  Thomas  this  could  not  be  a  new 
device,  for  he  informs  us  that  Coquelin  denies  that 
French  actors  gesticulated  more  than  English  actors, 


SOME   ODD   CONTRASTS 


93 


for  at  the  Conservatoire  the  professors  repress  gesticula- 
tion by  tying  the  young  actor's  arms  behind  him. 

In  the  old  days  actors  and  actresses  looked  upon  the 
theatre  as  the  thing,  the  whole  thing,  and  nothing  but 
the  thing ;  for  them  music-halls,  or  whatever  name 
variety  houses  are  called  by,  were  for  comic  singers,  dancers, 
and  acrobats.  As  for  the  kinemas — they  did  not  exist. 
Now  the  actor  plays  in  the 
music-halls  and  also  acts  for 
the  kinema.  Thus  he  has 
to  alter  his  methods.  He 
must  speak  up  if  he  is  to  be 
heard  in  the  halls ;  it  is  of 
no  use  lisping  through  a 
society  play ;  he  must  study 
his  action  more  if  he  is  to 
succeed  in  the  "  movies." 

The  more  I  look  back 
upon  the  old  days  the  more 
I  regret  we  had  not  the 
kinema  to  perpetuate  the  old 
favourites  and  to  hand  down 
the  present  generation 


to 


THE  MODERN   ACTOR'S 
ENGAGEMENTS. 


their  wonderful   personalities 
and  their  perfect  acting. 

To  all  of  us  who  recollect  theatrical  London  in  the 
seventies,  Buckstone  is  a  dear  and  valued  name.  Practic- 
ally speaking,  "  Old  Bucky  "  was  himself  the  old  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  around  him 
a  fine  old  English  comedy  company.  The  public  were 
brought  to  the  theatre  by  the  personality  of  Buckstone. 
The  country  cousins  visited  the  Haymarket  as  they 
would,  as  a  matter  of  course,  go  to  see  the  Tower,  St. 


94  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Paul's,  Madame  Tussaud's,  and  the  other  sights  of  the 
big  city. 

In  my  opinion  this  great  actor  cannot  better  be  de- 
scribed than  by  saying,  as  all  my  readers  who  frequented 
the  kinematograph  shows  a  few  years  ago  will  know,  that 
in  personal  appearance  he  was  the  John  Bunny  of  the 
legitimate  stage.  I  repeat,  never  do  I  witness  a  photo- 
play but  my  mind  travels  back  to  the  plays  and  players  of 
my  youth  with  the  regret  that  the  kinematograph  was 
not  then  in  existence.  Had  that  been  the  case  the 
present  generation  would  have  been  enabled  to  see 
Buckstone.  That,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is  all  that  most 
people  did  in  his  later  days,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
one  could  not  hear  him. 

I  have  written  and  produced  many  plays  for  the 
kinema,  both  in  America  and  in  England,  and  I  found 
that,  with  few  exceptions,  actors,  however  good,  cannot 
walk  off  the  stage  into  the  studio  and  expect  to  act  before 
the  camera  at  once.  In  acting  for  the  kinema,  Tree  was 
at  first  hopeless ;  Trilby  had  to  be  done  all  over  again, 
and  the  book  was  in  fact  eventually  sent  to  me  to  be 
arranged  for  the  kinema.  I  never  saw  the  final  pro- 
duction. 

Tree  wanted  more  space  and  less  pace  in  acting  before 
the  camera.  The  lighting  also  bothered  him ;  one  of 
his  company  cruelly  remarked  that  he  was  not  accustomed 
to  having  the  lights  so  equally  divided. 

It  was  always  a  joke  against  Tree  that  he  had  the  most 
of  the  limelight  directed  on  himself — which,  from  a 
business  point  of  view,  was  no  doubt  necessary,  but  at  the 
same  time  it  had  an  irritating  effect  on  those  who  were 
playing  leading  parts  with  him.  A  Canadian  actor,  who 
made  a  hit  at  His  Majesty's  and  worked  so  hard  that  it 


J.   B.   BUCKSTONE. 


95 


96  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

was  declared  the  "  steam  came  off  the  top  of  his  head," 
ventured  one  day  to  rebuke  Tree,  who  was  "  playing  him 
off  the  stage,"  by  remarking,  "  Say,  Mr.  Tree,  in  Nature, 
the  moon  is  impartial !  " 

"  Who's  Who  "  of  Bohemia  would  make  an  interesting 
volume.  The  most  fascinating  pages  would  be  those 
devoted  to  the  Jekylls  and  Hydes — that  is  to  men,  and  I 
might  add  women,  in  art,  literature,  and  the  stage  who 
have  lived  two  lives. 

In  my  early  days  I  was  one  evening  in  the  smoking  room 
of  a  Bohemian  club  I  had  recently  joined,  where  an 
artistic  and  clever-looking  member  with  a  fine  head 
and  long  hair,  wearing  a  velveteen  coat  and  salmon- 
coloured  tie  of  the  typical  artist,  informed  the  room 
that  he  was  starting  in  a  few  days  on  a  tour  through 
Normandy  and  Brittany,  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  suggested  there  was  a  chance  for  any  one  to  join  his 
party  of  three. 

The  only  response  came  from  myself.  I  was  then  about 
one-and-twenty.  I  was  living  alone,  had  been  working 
hard,  and  badly  needed  a  holiday,  so  I  introduced  myself 
to  the  speaker,  delighted  to  find  such  a  charming  com- 
panion. Moreover,  he  was  an  artist  (he  went  in  for 
modelling),  and  we  could  sketch  together.  His  wife  and 
little  daughter  were  delightful,  and  I,  thanks  largely  to 
my  new  acquaintances,  enjoyed  my  month  or  six  weeks' 
holiday  immensely. 

Returning  to  England,  I  was  invited  to  visit  his  people 
in  Kent,  and  found  there  a  refined  couple  who  had  made 
their  money  in  the  City  and  retired  to  the  country.  My 
artistic  friend,  who  was  a  writer  as  well  as  an  artist,  con- 
tinued to  carry  on  the  business,  but  as  he  made  such  a 
success  with  his  novel  writing  he  eventually  sold  it.  I 


SOME  ODD    CONTRASTS 


97 


looked  him  up  in  the  City  soon  after  our  Continental 
trip.  He  was  a  pork  butcher,  and  was  behind  the  counter 
cutting  up  legs  of  pork,  and  weighing  out  sausages.  He 


SKETCHING   IN   NORMANDY. 


became  one  of  our  popular  novelists,  and  enjoyed  a  very 
successful  career. 

Maarten   Maartens,  the  great  Dutch  novelist,  author 
7 


98  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

of  "  God's  Fool "  and  other  notable  works,  was  one 
of  the  most  interesting  men  I  have  met.  Like  his 
books,  he  was  thoughtful  and  reserved,  and  penetrated 
with  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  He  spoke  perfect  English, 
and  gave  pleasant  little  literary  dinners  at  his  club  in 
England,  where  I  met  the  shining  lights  in  literature. 

Maarten  Maartens  was  fond  of  Bohemia  and  Bo- 
hemians. He  made  the  acquaintance  of  some  young 
painters,  who  were  going  up  the  river  to  paint  landscapes, 
and  Maarten,  at  their  invitation,  visited  them.  "  This 
little  shanty  isn't  much  of  a  place  to  which  to  invite  a 
guest,"  one  of  the  hosts  remarked, "  but  if  you  can  manage 
the  ladder,  we  have  rigged  up  a  bed  of  sorts,  and  you'll 
find  the  old  roof  well  ventilated." 

The  famous  novelist  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  sojourn 
with  the  Bohemians,  and  in  return  made  them  promise 
to  visit  him  at  his  country  place  near  Utrecht,  in  Holland. 
In  due  course  the  Merry  Bohemians  pushed  into  their 
Gladstone  bags  some  things  befitting  a  rustic  country 
life,  and  looked  forward  to  a  few  days  in  the  writer's 
"  shanty." 

Arriving  at  their  destination,  they  were  met  to  their 
surprise  by  the  author,  accompanied  by  footmen  in 
gorgeous  livery,  who  relieved  them  of  their  hand-bags  ; 
and  to  their  increased  surprise  there  were  waiting  for 
them  carriages  with  outriders  in  livery ;  the  magnificent 
gates  were  flung  open  by  liveried  servants,  and  the  path 
to  the  castle  was  lined  with  torchbearers,  and  their  host, 
whose  full  name  was  Joost  Marius  Willem  Van  der 
Poorsten-Schwartz,  lived  like  a  prince  at  his  home. 

Once  a  Bohemian  always  a  Bohemian ;  that  is  true 
of  most  men  I  have  come  in  contact  with.  Sir  Henry 
Irving  is  an  example.  He  not  only  rose  to  the  highest 


SOME  ODD  CONTRASTS 


99 


pinnacle  of  fame  in  his  profession,  but  he  made  it  his 
mission  to  elevate  "  the 
profession  "  of  which  he 
was  the  acknowledged 
head  and  raise  it  from 
the  depth  of  "  vaga- 
bondism "  to  its  proper 
place.  Royalty  and  Bishops 
patted  Irving  on  the 
back,  learned  societies  and 
universities  honoured 
him  ;  he  was  equal  to  it 
all,  and  played  the  part 
so  well  that  he  in  turn 
patronised  them.  But,  in 
his  heart  of  hearts,  he 
hated  it  all. 

The  pose  in  public, 
though  genuine  in  pur- 
pose, was  but  a  pose  ;  his 
heart  was  in  Bohemia.  I 
have  frequently  been  in 
his  company  in  the  pro- 
vinces, when  he,  at  the 
theatre,  and  I,  at  some 
public  hall,  were  doing 
our  best  to  entertain  the 
public,  and  later  in  the 
evening  we  foregathered 
at  some  supper  function 
given  in  honour  of 
Irving. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  used  to  say,  as  we  were  returning 


too  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

to  the  hotel  together,  "  we'll  have  a  really  enjoyable 
supper  on  Saturday."  This  meant  Irving  inviting  me 
to  his  sitting-room  at  eleven  o'clock  or  later,  perhaps  to 
meet  one  or  two  particular  friends  of  his  associated  with 
the  city  in  which  we  happened  to  be.  On  his  way  to 
the  theatre  Irving  would  purchase  some  chops,  and  on 
his  return  some  baked  potatoes  from  a  vendor  in  the 
street. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  he  attended  to  the  fire  himself, 
and  from  his  portmanteau  produced  a  silver  gridiron 
which  our  mutual  friend  Joe  Hatton  had  given  to  him. 
Irving  having  cooked  the  chops,  and  procured  the  best 
wine  obtainable  and  the  finest  cigars,  we  would  make  a 
splendid  supper.  That  was  Bohemian,  and  in  that 
atmosphere  Irving  unbent  and  was  at  his  best. 


CHAPTER  IX 


MERRY    NIGHTS   AMONG   THE   "  SAVAGES  " 

After  five-and-twenty  years — The  "  Busy  Bees  " — The  delinquent 
member  and  the  Committee — A  Royal  Savage — Sir  Somers  Vine — 
George  A.  Henty — His  collapsible  boat — Saturday  evening  enter- 
tainment— Dr.  Farmer  and  Jowett — The  S.O.S.  signal — Crawford 
Wilson — "  Fairy  Fitzgerald  " — Edward  Draper — The  Tinsel-period 
— Jealous  and  du  Maurier — The  Savage  Club  Ball — I  censor  a 
Savage  Queen 

TWELVE  years  ago  I  dined 
at  the  Mansion  House  as 
one  of  the  guests  invited 
by  the  Right  Hon.  the 
Lord  Mayor,  Alderman 
Sir  William  Treloar,  a 
member  of  the  Savage 
Club,  to  meet  his  fellow- 
members.  I  had  two 
reasons  for  accepting  the 
Savage  Lord  Mayor's  in- 
vitation. First,  I  was 
not  invited  because  I  had 
been  a  "  Savage,"  nor  be- 
cause I  was  looked  upon 
as  a  representative  man 
for  the  others  to  meet. 

101 


I  TAKE  THE  CHAIR  AT  THE 
SAVAGE  CLUB. 


102 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


I  was  invited  because  I  had  just  previously  done  a  little 
indirect  service  to  Sir  William  in  connection  with  one 
of  his  appeals  on  behalf  of  his  Cripples  Fund.  For 
another  thing  I  admired  the  ex-Lord  Mayor  as  a  man. 
Sir  William  is  a  jolly  good  fellow  and  a  brick  for 

fighting  the  bigoted 
Sabbatarians  who 
object  to  people 
making  our  English 
Sunday  endurable. 
Another  reason 
for  attending  was 
the  desire  to  meet 
some  of  my  old 
friends.  Over  my 
head  a  quarter  of 
a  century  had  flown 
remarkably  quickly ; 
so  quickly,  indeed, 
since  I  had  last 
seen  the  "Savages," 
that  the  auburn 
locks  which  were 
wont  to  fall  over 
my  temples  when 
I  sat  on  the  Com- 
mittee of  the  Club 
had  to  a  great  extent  blown  off. 

I  beheld  a  bald-headed,  middle-aged  gentleman,  be- 
spectacled as  well,  whom  I  remembered  as  a  young 
singer  from  the  Savage  Wigwam,  building  up  a  reputation 
in  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  operas  at  the  Savoy. 

"  Hullo,  old  chap,  how  are  you  ?  "  was  my  greeting. 


ALDERMAN    TRELOAR. 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "  SAVAGES  "    103 

He  stared  at  me. 

"  You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  sir,"  he  replied 
loftily.  "  I  do  not  think  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
you." 

I  gave  him  my  name,  and  incidentally  a  dig  in  the  ribs. 

"  Good  gracious,  Harry,  old  fellow !  Well  I  never  ! 
You  fat,  bald-headed  old  chap  !  Bless  my  soul,  who 
would  have  thought  it !  " 

And  my  old-time  confrere  was  not  the  only  one  that 
evening  who  shook  me  by  the  hand  without  guessing 
my  identity,  and  who  was  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  grown  older  and  balder  with  the  passage  of  the 
years,  even  as  I  myself. 

But  the  men  who  were  even  more  interesting  than 
my  contemporaries  were  those  who  appeared  old  to  me 
when  I  was  a  boy ;  and  to  hear  Santley  sing  again,  and 
Mark  Twain  retail  delightful  stories — almost  as  old  as 
himself — made  me  feel  young  again. 

There  is  no  doubt  the  famous  Brothers  Brough  started 
the  Savage  Club.  It  is  truly  said  that  if  there  had  been 
no  Broughs  there  would  have  been  no  Savage  Club.  Per- 
sonally I  think  the  title  a  mistake.  In  the  circumstances 
the  "  Busy  Bees  "  would  have  been  a  better  one.  Most 
of  the  members  are  busy  bees,  with  a  few  drones  thrown 
in,  and  I  do  not  think  that  literally  they  have  a  Savage 
among  them,  a  fact  that  was  singularly  emphasised  at 
the  great  Savage  Ball  at  the  Royal  Albert  Hall. 

I  was  a  member  of  the  Savage  Club  when  it  was  housed 
in  the  Savoy,  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  large  block  of 
buildings  facing  a  graveyard.  Some  of  my  pleasantest 
memories  are  connected  with  those  Savage  days  ;  they 
were  not  long,  but  merry.  More  than  once  I  presided 
at  the  famous  Saturday  night  dinner  and  sang  songs  and 


104  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

thumped  the  accompaniment  on  the  table,  and  made 
the  one  speech  of  the  evening,  "  Gentlemen,  you  may 
smoke."  I  designed,  a  number  of  menus,  or  mementoes, 
for  these  dinners  ;  I  served  on  the  committee,  and  before 
beginning  my  career  on  the  platform  I  "  tried  it  on  the 
dog  "  at  the  Savage. 

They  were  great  days.  Some  of  the  original  Savages 
were  still  members,  and  young  fellows  of  my  age  drank 
in  the  earlier  history  of  the  Savages  from  them  with  much 
delight.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  wide  river  of  true 
Bohemianism  flows  steadily  through  the  Land  of  the 
Savages.  There  are  other  clubs  of  its  kind  in  the  back- 
water, but  the  Savage  holds  to  a  firm  foundation,  and  I 
trust  is  still  rippled  with  a  little  of  its  old  eccentricity. 
In  the  old  days  some  delightful  incongruities  happened, 
that  could  not  possibly  occur  in  any  other  club  I  have 
been  connected  with. 

I  was  on  the  committee  at  the  time  the  affairs  of  a 
certain  impecunious  but  popular  member  were  brought 
up,  and  we  had  to  deal  with  them  for  the  five-hundredth 
time.  The  member  paid  for  nothing,  broke  the  rules, 
and  generally  behaved  in  a  way  that  had  he  been  a 
member  of  any  other  club  he  would  have  been  expelled 
without  a  doubt.  After  much  consideration  we  thought 
it  our  duty  to  suggest  payment  or  suspension. 

The  delinquent  member's  wrath  knew  no  bounds.  He 
called  a  general  meeting,  and  the  result  was  that  his 
friends,  absolutely  ignorant,  it  is  needless  to  say,  of  all 
the  rules  of  clubland,  passed  a  vote  of  censure  on  the 
committee.  We  resigned.  And  the  popular  member  in 
question  is  still  a  member  of  the  club ! 

It  may  be  interesting  to  mention  the  members  of 
the  committee  who  were  so  ignominiously  retired  :  Sir 


io6 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


Gladstone    ministry 


Philip  Cunliffe-Owen,  K.C.M.,  G.C.B.,  C.I.E.,  was  in 
the  Chair;  T.  R.  Somers  Vine  (afterwards  Sir  Somers 
Vine) ;  Charles  Kelly,  the  well-known  actor  who  married 
Miss  Ellen  Terry ;  W.  B.  Tegetmeier,  of  whom  I  have 
written  elsewhere;  William  Woodall,  M.P.  in  the 

P.  T.  Duffy,  the  well-known 
authority  on  chess;  Edward 
Draper,  solicitor,  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  respected 
members;  C.  B.  Birch,  the 
celebrated  sculptor  and  member 
of  the  Royal  Academy ;  George 
S.  Jealous,  editor  and  pro- 
prietor of  The  Hampstead  and 
Highgate  Express ;  Herbert 
Johnson,  of  The  Graphic,  and 
an  art  war  correspondent; 
William  Hughes,  the  famous 
painter ;  Thomas  W.  Cutler, 
an  old  member  and  architect ; 
John  Radclirf,  leading  flautist 
of  the  Royal  Opera;  E.  T. 
Goodman,  honorary  secretary, 
and  a  sub-editor  of  The  Daily 
Telegraph ;  and  your  humble 
servant.  These  were  the  men  turned  out  of  office  for 
asking  a  member  to  pay  his  club  debts !  I  merely 
mention  their  names  as  the  same  committee  who  had 
signed  the  resolution  asking  H.R.H.  the  Prince  of  Wales 
(Edward  VII.)  to  join  the  club. 

I  suppose  that  the  election  of  H.R.H.  the  Prince 
of  Wales  as  honorary  life-member  was  the  greatest  social 
event  in  the  history  of  the  club. 


A   BOHEMIAN   WHO    DEFIED 
THE    COMMITTEE. 


MERRY   NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "SAVAGES"    107 

The  Harlequin  who  arranged  this  royal  visit,  and  there- 
by transformed  the  Savage  Club,  was  Sir  Somers  Vine. 
Vine  originally,  I  believe,  was  in  the  business  of  Waterlow 
and  Sons,  printers,  in  the  City.  He  was  selected  by 
Sir  Sidney  Waterlow,  when  he  became  Lord  Mayor  of 
London,  as  his  secretary,  and  Vine  acted  in  the  same 
capacity  to  succeeding  Lord 
Mayors  for  six  or  seven  years, 
thus  gaining  an  invaluable  ex- 
perience of  men  and  things.  It 
was  popularly  supposed  that  he 
acted  as  the  medium  between 
King  Edward  and  the  City  in 
financial  affairs.  Anyway,  he  was 
very  popular  with  King  Edward. 

Vine  had  a  quaint  way  of  say- 
ing things.  I  asked  him  in  a 
chaffing  way  how  he  got  his 
knighthood.  "Well,"  he  said, 
with  a  broad  smile,  "  it  was  like 
this.  I  was  walking  about  the 
grounds  of  Sandringham  with  His 
Royal  Highness  one  day,  and  he 
said,  *  Vine,  would  you  like  an 
honour  ? '  Well,  Harry,  you  could 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather.  *  A  what,  sir  ?  '  I  said.  '  An  honour — a  knight- 
hood.' '  Well,  Your  Highness,  I  should  be  most  happy.' 
That  was  on  a  Tuesday,  and  I  was  Sir  Somers  on 
Thursday,  and  that's  all  I  know  about  it." 

There  is  a  story  told  of  a  very  caustic  wit,  the  popular 
member  Baker  Greene,  barrister  and  leader-writer  on 
The  Morning  Post,  when  invited  by  Sir  Somers  Vine  to 


io8  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

pay  him  a  visit  at  his  "  ancestral "  home,  at  Vine  Court, 
Sevenoaks,  replied,  "  With  pleasure  if  I  can  manage  it — 
but,  I  say,  Vine,  you  have  not  given  me  the  number  in  the 
Court." 

Dear  George  Henty  was  perhaps  the  most  popular 
member  of  the  club  in  my  day.  His  rugged,  honest 
appearance  and  manner  were  thoroughly  Bohemian ;  his 
gruff,  deep  voice  and  firm  hand-grip  endeared  him  to  all. 
If  the  boys  of  Britain  loved  him  for  his  annual  war  story, 
we  grown-ups  admired  him  as  a  journalist  and  as  a  club- 
man. Henty  was  one  of  the  famous  war  correspondents 
in  the  Crimea,  and  it  may  be  said  that  he  always  suggested 
the  Crimea,  for  the  war  started  the  fashion  of  wearing 
full  beards.  Henty,  in  a  military  coat,  was  from  top  to 
toe  a  typical  Crimean  warrior,  always  enjoying  the 
inevitable  pipe. 

He  had  a  nature  as  simple  as  a  child's.  I  recollect 
one  day  he  came  into  the  club  in  great  distress.  He  must 
have  been  then  about  fifty  years  old.  It  appears  that  he 
had  invented  a  collapsible  boat,  a  boat  that  could  be 
folded  in  two  and  easily  carried.  Well,  in  mid-stream  it 
did  collapse,  and  poor  Henty  had  to  swim  to  the  shore. 
"  When  I  got  home  I  crept  in  at  the  back  door.  I  did 
not  mind  the  soaking  or  the  failure  of  my  invention. 
What  did  distress  me  was  the  fact  that  my  mother  did 
not  know  I  was  out,  so  pray  don't  say  a  word,  any  of  you 
fellows,  in  the  papers." 

Henty,  although  the  most  genial  of  men,  had  his  likes 
and  dislikes,  apart  from  politics,  in  which  he  figured  as 
a  strong  old-fashioned  Tory.  He  had  no  bitterness ;  cer- 
tainly he  entertained  none  towards  any  member  of  the 
Savage  Club.  There  was  a  certain  visitor  frequently 
in  the  club — I  do  not  think  he  was  ever  a  member — a 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  " SAVAGES"    109 

very  notorious  Member  of  Parliament,  J.  B.  Firth,  whose 
mission  in  life  was  to  mend  or  end  the  ancient  companies 
of  the  City  of  London.  The  organisation  he  presided 
over  had  offices  in  the  same  building  as  the  Savage  Club. 


GEORGE   A.    HENTY. 


Both  in  and  out  of  Parliament  he  harangued,  tub- 
thumped,  derided  and  attacked  unceasingly  the  City 
Guilds,  and  in  consequence  I  noticed  that  at  every  City 
dinner  I  attended  Firth's  attacks,  without  exception, 
caused  much  uneasiness.  Firth  was  a  cocksure,  self- 
satisfied,  egotistical  man.  He  wore  his  hat  balanced  well 


no 


MY  BOHEMIAN   DAYS 


forward  on  his  perky  little  nose,   leaving  exposed  the 
bump  of  self-esteem  at  the  back  of  his  cranium,  altogether 
just  the  man  to  get  on  the  nerves  of  good  old  Henty,  who 
one  afternoon  remarked  in  his  gruff  way,  "  I  never  know 
if  that  man  is  the  Firth  of  Forth  or  the  fourth  of  Firth." 
The  usual  Bohemian  concert  or  entertainment  took 
place   generally,   as   I   believe   it 
does  still,  on  a  Saturday  evening. 
And  in  this  the  good  nature  of 
the    Bohemian   is   extraordinary, 
his   long-suffering    and    patience 
are  phenomenal.     For  hours  every 
week  they  will   keep  the  enter- 
tainment going.     Very  seldom  is 
there  anything  not  worth  listen- 
ing to,  from  the  opening  piece 
on    the   piano   to    the    solos   on 
the    flute  or    on    the    violin    of 
some  master  of  the  instrument, 
before  he  departs  to  the  Opera 
or   the   Concert   Hall ;    or  later 
on,  when  the  beautiful  voice  of 
some  practised  singer  charms  the 
assembly  as  he  sings  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  smoke,  and  the  fumes 

of  whisky,  some  song  that  has  an  hour  or  so  before 
charmed  the  public  in  the  stalls.  But  it  is  easily  seen  that 
he  has  in  front  of  him,  hidden  in  the  clouds  of  smoke,  a 
more  appreciative  audience  than  he  could  possibly  have 
elsewhere ;  so,  in  spite  of  the  disadvantage  of  singing 
while  the  vocal  chords  are  irritated  by  the  weed,  he 
protects  himself  by  taking  a  puff  from  his  own  cigar 
between  the  parts. 


J.    B.    FIRTH. 


MERRY  NIGHTS   AMONG   THE  "SAVAGES"    in 

There  was  often  introduced  some  new  talent,  just 
come  to  Town,  perhaps  to  win  over  the  critics  and  make 
many  a  friend  ;  and  without  doubt  an  evening  spent  in 
a  club  such  as  this  is  more  entertaining  than  all  London's 
concerts  of  the  evening  put  together.  Men  will  run  in 


WHEN   GROSSMITH   FAILED   TO  GET  A   LAUGH. 

to  "  do  their  turn  "  and  rush  off  to  their  work  again, 
and  in  this  way  some  funny  complications  take  place. 
I  recollect  George  Grossmith  singing  one  of  his  funniest 
songs,  and  not  understanding  the  failure  of  the  audience 
to  appreciate  it  after  the  first  burst  of  laughter.  The 
fact  of  it  was  there  had  been  another  vocal  humorist, 


ii2  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

who  left  the  room  as  he  entered,  who  had  sung  the  very 
same  song  ! 

The  theatrical  members  gave  "  a  turn  "  before  rushing 
off  to  their  work,  and  if  it  was  a  late  evening  at  the  club, 
gave  another  on  their  return.  Between  the  appearances 
of  these  professional  turns  arose  the  opportunities  of  the 
stand-byes  or  stop-gaps,  and  didn't  they  enjoy  them- 
selves too  !  These  stop-gaps  were,  in  my  time,  always 
the  same  ;  their  repeated  thread-bare  strains  were  always 
met  with  good  humour  in  spite  of  a  lack  of  appreciation. 

The  music  master  of  Harrow  School,  John  Farmer, 
came  first  to  the  rescue  (principally  because  he  had  to 
catch  an  early  train  to  Harrow)  with  a  kind  of  George 
Grossmith  turn  at  the  piano,  more  suited  for  a  nice 
suburban  tea-party  than  a  Club  of  Savages.  Farmer 
was  a  very  entertaining  man.  He  wrote  the  popular 
Harrow  School  songs.  He  was  beloved  by  the  Har- 
rovians. He  had  the  manner  of  a  scholastic  professor, 
but  was  at  heart  a  true  Bohemian.  He  was  a  great  friend 
of  Professor  Jowett,  and  when  Jowett  was  Master  of 
Balliol,  he  induced  Farmer  to  leave  Harrow  and  settle 
down  in  Oxford.  He  had  great  influence  over  the 
young  men,  particularly  those  who  had  been  Harrow  boys. 
Harrow  boys  worshipped  Farmer,  and  at  Oxford  his 
concerts  were  equally  popular. 

Dr.  Farmer  I  knew  well.  I  once  spent  some  days 
with  him  at  Oxford  during  the  Eights  week.  He  was 
never  tired  of  talking  of  his  "  bies,"  as  he  called  the 
young  men,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  although  "  bies " 
will  be  "  bies,"  they  will  not  be  "  bies "  when  they  are 
college  men,  so  Farmer  was  not  either  as  popular  or  as 
successful  towards  the  end  of  his  career. 

I  remember  his  telling  me  that  when  at  Harrow  a  circus 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "SAVAGES"    113 

passed  through,  and  the  boys  became  very  excited.  In 
front,  on  a  splendid  white  charger,  rode  the  "  Boss  "  of 
the  circus — red  and  gold  trappings,  magnificent  diamond 
shirt-stud — every  inch  a  King  !  When  he  came  up  to 
where  Farmer  was  standing  with  the  "  bies,"  the  sedate 
monarch  pulled  up,  jumped  off  his  horse,  and  shook 
"  John "  warmly  by  the  hand.  From  that  moment 
Farmer  rose  high  in 
the  estimation  of  the 
"  bies "  and  never 
came  down  to  the 
level  of  an  ordinary 
being  again.  It  ap- 
pears Farmer  began 
life  as  a  member  of 
the  troupe ;  he  played 
the  big  drum  and  dis- 
tributed the  handbills. 

Men  overtaxing 
their  brains  have  ex- 
traordinary, eccentric 
antidotes. 

Mr.  Gladstone,  ac- 
cording to  Tom  Cat- 
ling, of  Lloyds,  when  carrying  on  his  famous  crusade  in 
Midlothian,  tore  himself  away  from  delivering  speeches 
and  orations,  to  soothe  and  steady  himself  with  music. 
The  G.O.M.  arranged  with  a  church  organist  to  have 
organ  practice  at  a  convenient  time,  and  he  was  provided 
with  a  key  so  that  he  could  enter  the  church  quite 
privately  and  sit  silently  and  alone  "  while  the  organist 
played  over  a  number  of  familiar  and  impressive  hymn 
tunes " ;  then  with  a  "  Thank  you  "  he  passed  out. 
8 


DR.    FARMER   AND  THE  MASTER 

OF    BALLIOL. 


ii4  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

One  day  at  Oxford  I  came  in  to  tea  and  found  Jowett 
seated  in  Dr.  Farmer's  room,  quietly  tucked  up  in  a 
corner,  listening  to  Farmer's  little  entertainment  on  the 
piano,  the  same  as  he  gave  so  often  at  the  Savage.  This 
was  the  great  master's  recreation. 

Another  of  the  Savage  stop-gaps  was  an  artist  named 
Soden,  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest  and  varied  accomplish- 
ments. He  wrote  clever  verse  and  recited  his  own 
pieces,  but  in  spite  of  years  of  repetition  he  invariably 
broke  down  at  the  critical  point  of  his  extremely 
humorous  pieces.  I  do  not  think  he  would  have  been 
half  so  popular  had  he  remembered  his  words.  The 
company  would  probably  have  resented  it. 

After  him  came  a  stout  man  with  a  bushy  black  beard 
and  moustache,  and  a  profusion  of  hair  on  his  head.  He 
approached  the  piano  with  a  broad  grin,  as  if  the  song 
he  invariably  sang,  called  "Twickenham  Ferry,"  was  all  a 
joke.  He  was  the  clever  painter  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
William  Hughes,  and  was  known  as  "  Fruity  Hughes." 
His  voice  seemed  to  be  lost  in  his  moustache  and  beard. 

Crawford  Wilson  was  for  a  long  time  an  interesting 
figure  in  Bohemia.  He  was  in  business  as  a  costumier, 
but  his  heart  was  in  the  theatre  where  at  one  time  he, 
as  an  amateur,  had  "  strutted  his  brief  hour."  Un- 
fortunately he  was  never  brief  in  relating  his  experience 
and  dwelling  upon  its  importance,  and  as  he  got  older 
he — well,  to  put  it  plainly — became  a  bore.  He  was 
imbued  with  the  "  legitimate "  mode  of  acting,  and 
being  endowed  with  a  strong  voice,  and  an  Irish  brogue, 
he  favoured  Bohemia  on  every  occasion  by  reciting  long 
passages  from  the  legitimate  drama.  The  At  Homes  in 
his  house,  near  to  the  north  side  of  Primrose  Hill,  were 
largely  patronised  by  Bohemians.  Among  others  I  met 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "SAVAGES"    115 

there  were  Karl  Blind  and  his  wife.  The  latter,  like  our 
host,  had  a  voice  and  a  passion  for  exercising  it  by- 
reciting  long,  tragic  pieces  ad  lib.  It  was  said  that  besides 
being  Wilson's  friends,  many  were  also  the  mantle- 
maker's  customers,  and  one  evening  when,  leaving,  my 
wife  and  I  got  on  to  the  steps  of  the  house,  I  remarked 
to  a  friendly  wit  departing  at  the  same  time,  "  For  this 
relief  much  thanks."  "Hush!" 

he   whispered,    "  Mrs.  Karl   B 

is  just  behind  us !  In  fact  one  can 
say  the  mantle  of  Wilson  has  fallen 
upon  her." 

Crawford  Wilson  on  one  occa- 
sion asked  me  down  to  his  breakfast 
room  to  look  at  some  theatrical 
portraits.  As  we  entered,  his  parrot 
called  out :  "  Hullo,  hullo  !  you 
rascal,  at  it  again  ?  "  then  gave  a 
derisive  screech,  and  in  a  most 
marvellous  manner  imitated  a  cork- 
screw being  applied  to  a  bottle, 
the  pop  of  the  cork,  and  the  pouring 
out  of  the  liquor. 

"  You  infernal  rascal !  "  cried  Wilson.  "  I'll  be  twisting 
your  neck  if  y'do  that  agin." 

It  struck  me  the  parrot  was  by  no  means  the  least 
amusing  Bohemian  entertainer  I  had  heard. 

Crawford  Wilson  was  an  old  member  of  the  Savage 
Club,  and  about  him  another  and  a  very  old  Savage, 
"  The  Old  Bohemian,"  Dr.  Strauss,  was  fond  of  recalling 
a  performance  of  The  School  for  Scandal  at  the  Lyceum 
Theatre,  in  which  Henry  J.  Byron  (the  author  of  Our 
Boys)  and  Crawford  Wilson  played  respectively  the  parts 


CRAWFORD   WILSON. 


n6  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

of  Joseph  and  Charles  Surface.  Crawford's  Irish  brogue 
was  very  apparent  and  puzzled  the  critics  how  it  was 
that  Joseph  came  from  London  and  his  brother  Charles 
from  Cork. 

There  was  another  well-known  and  respected  Irishman, 
a  popular  member  of  the  Savage  Club,  where  I  spent  so 
many  happy  evenings,  in  their  wigwam  forty  years  ago. 
He  was  a  picturesque  old  chap,  imbued,  like  Crawford 
Wilson,  with  the  traditions  of  the  transpontine  drama, 
and  unlike  the  commercial  and  bearded  Wilson,  J.  A. 
Fitzgerald  looked  his  part.  He  had  a  mobile  face,  a 
twinkling  eye,  and  his  hair  was  long,  thick  and  thrown 
back  from  his  face,  but  not  as  thick  as  his  rich  Irish 
brogue.  He  was  known  as  "  Fairy  Fitzgerald  "  from  the 
fact  that  his  work,  both  colour  and  black-and-white,  was 
devoted  to  fairy  scenes,  in  fact  his  artistic  life  was  one 
long  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

When  I  was  a  constant  contributor  to  the  pages  of 
The  Illustrated  London  News,  no  Christmas  number  was 
considered  complete  without  a  page  of  Fitzgerald's  dream 
fairies,  and  he  was  drawing  the  same  subject  before  I  was 
born. 

In  the  Savage  Club  on  Saturday  evening  he  was  one  of 
the  regular  stop-gaps.  If  I  recollect,  he  only  had  two 
turns,  one  a  burlesque  imitation  of  old-time  actors,  the 
other  a  burlesque  of  an  old-time  theatrical  manager  at 
rehearsal,  in  which  h's  were  scarce  and  swear  words 
abundant.  The  merriment  caused  by  his  supposed 
representations  of  old  actors,  Kean,  Kemble,  Macready, 
etc.,  was  not  as  the  dear  old  chap  fondly  imagined,  but 
lay  in  the  fact  that  they  were  one  and  all  Fitzgerald 
himself.  He  sometimes  introduced  Irving  into  his 
repertoire,  and  a  few  other  actors,  to  bring  it  up  to  date — 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "SAVAGES"    117 

but  they  were  all  Fitzgerald.  Of  course  certain  limita- 
tions of  articulation  in  very  old  men  become  very  evident, 
and  that  I  think  accounted  for  the  curious  exhibition. 

L.  D.  Powles,  a  very  popular  member  of  the  club,  a 
typical  barrister  of  the  jolly-good-sort-of-man-about- 
town  type,  who  ran  a  society  weekly,  The  Tattler,  a  revival 
of  the  famous  old  Tattler  (with  two  "  t's "),  and  subse- 
quently became  Judge  of  the 
Bahamas,  filled  up  any  gap  in  the 
Saturday  evening  entertainments  at 
the  Savage  Club  with  his  excellent 
burlesque  of  the  summing-up  by 
a  learned  justice. 

Then  one  of  the  original  Savages, 
Edward  Draper,  a  solicitor  who 
drew  up  the  original  rules  of  the 
club,  gave  a  quaint  recitation. 

This  popular  member,  with  his 
ever-smiling  face,  was  a  familiar 
figure  in  Fleet  Street  and  the 
Strand  in  the  old  days.  He  in- 
variably carried  a  rather  large-sized 
black  bag,  .  which  contained  far 
more  entertaining  matters  than 
lawyers'  briefs,  for  Draper  was  a  collector  of  the  old 
penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured  prints  of  theatrical 
characters — a  fact  which  endeared  him  to  me,  as  I  am 
also  a  collector,  and  am  the  proud  possessor  of  a  book 
containing  every  specimen  and  pattern  of  "  tinsel " 
ever  made.  Beautiful  works  of  art  they  are  too,  finely 
engraved,  I  believe  by  Wyon  (the  firm  responsible  for 
the  engraving  of  the  Seals  of  State). 

Draper  as  a  Bohemian  and  a  member  of  the  Savage 


n8 


MY  BOHEMIAN   DAYS 


had  a  unique  and  unfailing  characteristic,  for  no  matter 
how  gay  or  distinguished  the  company  might  be,  at 
nine  o'clock  punctually  he  left  the  club,  carrying  his 
bag,  believing  and  living  up  to  that  excellent  maxim  of 
"  early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise." 

The  rage  for  tinsel  pictures  took  place  long  before  my 
time,  in  the  days  when  Madame  Vestris  played  in  The 
Green  Bushes  and  the  palmy  days  of  the  "  Old  Vic." 

I  was  present,  however,  at  the 
last  performance  of  that  famous 
transpontine  playhouse,  and  wit- 
nessed the  last  "dog  drama,"  a 
blood-curdling  play  in  which  the 
inevitable  mastiff  flies  at  the 
throat  of  the  villain.  Everything 
in  the  play  leads  up  to  this  one 
incident,  it  might  be  in  truth 
called  the  raison  d'etre  of  the 
play — and  it  was  worth  the  money 
too  !  The  part  of  the  villain  in 
this  scene  was  generally  substituted 
by  the  master  of  the  ferocious 
hound,  who  had  trained  his  dog, 
partly  by  starvation,  I  fear.  This  "  actor-villain  "  con- 
cealed a  nice  juicy  piece  of  uncooked  meat  round  his 
neck,  and  at  the  critical  moment,  to  the  music  of  a 
full  orchestra,  the  dog  fastened  his  teeth  into  the  meat ; 
the  man  and  he  struggled  all  over  the  stage.  The 
realism  of  the  combat  brought  the  house  down,  and  the 
villain  and  the  curtain  simultaneously.  That  was 
something  like  a  drama  ! 

Edward  Draper,  in  the  second  series  of  The  Savage 
Club  Papers,  written  and  illustrated  by  the  Savages  and 


A   POPULAR   SAVAGE. 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG   THE  "SAVAGES'*    119 

published  for  charity  in  the  sixties,  and  now  exceedingly 
rare,  contributes  an  article  on  these  old-time  plays, 
characters,  and  scenes  of  the  tinsel  period.  The  chief 
publisher  was  West,  who  kept  a  shop  opposite  the  Olympic 
Theatre  in  Wych  Street,  Strand.  The  scenes  were  en- 
graved by  clever  scene-painters,  the  characters  were 
etched  by  skilful  artists  and  were  so  well  drawn  that 
they  frequently  presented  actual  portraits.  They  were 
coloured  by  William  Heath,  a  famous  water-colour  artist 
of  the  day.  George  Cruikshank  designed  and  etched 
many  of  them.  The  large  single-character  portraits 
were  covered  with  real  tinsel,  over  inserted  material  of 
either  satin,  silk,  or  velvet,  and  finally  framed.  These 
tinsels  are  admired  by  artists  of  to-day  for  their  beautiful 
workmanship.  May,  the  theatrical  costumier  of  Garrick 
Street,  is  an  enthusiast  and  has  quite  a  collection  on  his 
premises.  But  my  collection  is  unique. 

Jealous,  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Hampstead 
and  Highgate  Gazette,  was  a  good  type  of  the  suburban 
journalist  and  editor,  of  the  compositor  type,  a  shrewd, 
level-headed  man  of  the  world,  and  quite  a  representative 
of  the  working  Savage.  He  was  a  neighbour  and  friend 
of  the  du  Mauriers,  and  more  than  once  supplied  jokes 
for  the  pencil  of  that  aristocratic  discoverer  of  Mrs.  de 
Tomkyns  in  Punch.  He  looked  up  to  du  Maurier  in 
more  senses  than  one,  for  Jealous  lived  in  the  hollow  of 
Hampstead  known  as  the  Vale  of  Health,  and  du  Maurier 
at  the  top.  Between  them  they  had  one  thing  in 
common,  a  cabman  who  supplied  vehicles  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood and  whose  name  resembled  Montmorency.  On 
the  occasion  of  du  Maurier  engaging  this  cabman  to  drive 
him  to  and  from  the  Society  functions  in  the  West  End, 
when  the  guests  were  leaving,  the  cabman,  as  directed, 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

gave  his  own  name  to  the  footman  at  the  door.  "  The 
Duke  of  Montmorency's  carriage  stops  the  way,"  called 
the  footman  from  the  doorstep.  But  if  Jealous  engaged 
the  same  man  to  drive  him  to  and  from  somewhat  more 
plebeian  gatherings,  "  Mr.  Montmorency's  cab  is  still  a- 
waiting,"  was  called  from  the  foot  of  the  rank.  Jealous 
was  always  full  of  schemes  for  new  ventures  in  journalism. 
His  latest  was  a  penny  Tit-Bit  style  of  weekly,  entitled 
Love,  dealing  with  that  magic  word  in  all  its  phases. 
The  author  of  Charley's  Aunt — Brandon  Thomas — and 


several  other  Savages  found  the  money  to  start  it ;   but 
it  was,  alas  !  for  love,  and  love  was,  as  ever,  fickle. 

Jealous  was  one  of  the  stop-gaps  at  the  Savage  Club 
gatherings  on  Saturday  evening,  and  responded  to  the 
S.O.S.  signal.  When  the  entertainment  seemed  flounder- 
ing, Jealous  good-naturedly  came  to  the  rescue.  He  had 
not  much  to  contribute,  but  he  made  the  most  of  it. 
Very  deliberate  in  manner,  he  insisted  upon  walking  very 
slowly  round  the  tables  right  into  the  centre  of  the  room 
under  the  chandelier.  Then  he  deliberately  took  out 
of  his  pocket  some  papers,  out  of  which  he  selected  a 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "SAVAGES"    121 

press  cutting  about  three  inches  long.  This  was  an 
American  humorous  description  of  a  critic's  advice  to 
an  artist  of  the  name  of  Barker,  and  this  advice  to 
Barker  was  read  out,  without  exaggeration,  for  years, 
with  the  strange  effect  that  every  one  knew  every  word 
by  heart,  but  Jealous  himself ! 

The  ornamental  members  that  join  these  Bohemian 
Clubs  of  course  only  see  the  club  life  on  state  occasions 
when  a  special  banquet  is  given  to  some  particular 
guest.  In  fact,  it  was  the  introducing  of  these  particular 
guests,  the  taking  such  clubs  away  from  their  surround- 
ings, and  making  a  public  affair  of  these  entertainments 
in  public  rooms,  that  has  practically  spoilt  the  home  of 
Bohemianism. 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  visited  the  Savage  Club  years 
ago,  it  was  at  a  big  public  function  held  at  the  Pall  Mall 
Restaurant,  with  the  Earl  of  Dunraven  in  the  chair,  and 
M.  E.  About,  M.  Got,  Sir  J.  Benedict,  some  Members  of 
Parliament,  half  a  dozen  Academicians,  Delauny,  Mounet- 
Sully,  and  other  English  and  foreign  celebrities  among 
the  guests. 

After  this  the  club  never  seemed  to  settle  down  in  its 
quiet  home,  but  was  always  bursting  out  into  public 
dinners,  as  I  have  said  before.  The  climax  came  when 
the  Prince  of  Wales  became  a  member  at  the  dinner  in 
Wills's  Rooms  in  1882. 

King  Edward's  tact  was  proverbial.  When  Prince  of 
Wales  he  was  the  guest  of  the  Savage  Club  and  became 
a  member.  He  had  a  very  difficult  task  in  making  his 
speech,  so  he  wisely  did  not  mention  any  names,  with 
the  exception  of  myself.  I  had  designed  the  menu  for 
that  occasion.  It  was  double  and  stood  upright  on  the 
table,  and  was  supposed  to  represent  a  row  of  the 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Savages'  tents,  and  on  this  peg  His  Royal  Highness  hung 
some  of  his  remarks.  After  the  banquet,  which  by  the 
way  was  held  at  Wills's  Rooms,  the  Prince  asked  me  for 
the  original  drawings,  which  I  subsequently  had  framed 
and  sent  to  Marlborough  House,  and  I  receiving  no 
acknowledgment,  wrote  to  Sir  Francis  Knollys  and  had 
in  return  a  graceful  apology  saying  that  he  had  been  very 
ill.  Sir  Francis  (afterwards  Lord  Knollys)  had  in  fact 
been  on  his  honeymoon,  an  irresistible  excuse. 

His  Royal  Highness  having  become  "  one  of  us,"  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  see  "  the  Savages  in  their  habit  as 
they  lived,"  so  we  all  adjourned  to  our  wigwam  at 
Lancaster  House,  Savoy,  where  the  usual  entertainment 
took  place. 

The  greatest  public  function  held  by  the  Savages  was 
their  fancy  dress  ball  at  the  Royal  Albert  Hall,  held  in 
July  1883,  for  the  purpose  of  raising  a  fund,  at  the  Prince 
of  Wales's  suggestion,  to  found  a  Savage  Club  Fellowship 
at  the  Royal  College  of  Music.  Over  four  thousand 
visitors  and  spectators  were  present.  I  designed  the 
invitation  card  and  acted  as  one  of  the  three  judges 
selected  for  the  ungrateful  task  of  inspecting  all  those 
who  were  in  fancy  dress  on  their  arrival,  in  order  to 
prohibit  those  who  were  in  any  way  vulgar  or  objection- 
able. 

One  of  those  I  had  to  censor  was  a  very  beautiful 
young  lady,  who  came  with  her  parents.  They  were 
Society  people,  who  had  gone  to  the  expense  of  sending 
to  the  best  costumier  in  Paris  for  a  suitable  and  effective 
savage  queen's  costume.  It  had  only  arrived  just  in 
time,  and  great  was  the  young  lady's  chagrin  when  I 
informed  her  that  unless  she  promised  to  keep  on  her 
wraps  and  opera  cloak,  I  could  not  admit  her.  The 


MERRY  NIGHTS  AMONG  THE  "SAVAGES"    123 

"  costume  "  was  beautifully  hand-painted  and  absolutely 
tight-fitting. 

The  ladies  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery  all  the  evening. 
I    chatted   with   them    from    time   to 
time,   but  failed,   I   fear,   to    dissipate 
the  only  thing  typical  of  the  occasion, 
and  that  was  their  savage  looks. 

The  ball  was  a  wonderful  success, 
and  the  talk  of  London.  I  made 
sketches  of  it  for  The  Illustrated 
London  News.  The  letterpress  states  : 
"  The  costumes  were  probably  the 
most  varied  ever  seen  together,  and 
many  were  remarkably  artistic,  accur- 
ate, and  splendid.  It  was  more  than 
amusing  to  see  respectable  old  Bohe- 
mians in  war-paint  performing  the 
Buffalo  dance." 

The  most  artistic  and  accurate  cos- 
tume of  all  was  that  of  dear  old  Tegetmeier,  as  a 
Japanese ;  and  as  I  began  my  notes  on  the  Savages  with 
Tegetmeier,  it  seems  only  just  and  fitting  to  close  them 
with  his  name. 


TEGETMEIER   AS   A 
JAPANESE. 


CHAPTER  X 


"  Billy  "  Russell,  of  The  Times— Sidney  Hall,  of  The  Graphic— Melton 
Prior  and  Stanley — A  new  "  Lord  High  Executioner  " — Bennett 
Burleigh  outwits  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley — The  Savage  Club  romancer 
— Archibald  Forbes — Fred  Villiers — I  decline  to  become  one — 
"  Jumbo  " — Blowitz — G.  Smalley — Tennyson's  pig — "  The  Bulldog 
of  America  " 

WAR  correspondents,  both  wielders  of  pen  and  pencil, 
who  have  followed  the  fortunes  of  battle  in  so  many  parts 
of  the  world,  have  all,  with  perhaps  one  exception, 
emanated  from  Bohemia.  The  exception  was  the  first 
and  the  most  famous — Dr.  William  Russell,  familiarly 
known  as  "  Billy  Russell,"  of  The  Times,  who,  as  I  have 
before  boasted,  shared  with  me  the  honour  of  making  a 
noise  in  the  world  at  the  same  time,  he  with  his  famous 
letters  from  the  Crimean  War  and  I — in  my  cradle. 

Russell  owed  much  of  his  popularity  and  patronage  to 
his  Irish  humour.  He  was  always  good  company,  and 
his  ceaseless  flow  of  stories,  retailed  in  the  dulcet  tones  of 
a  rich  Irish  brogue,  were  greatly  relished  by  King  Edward, 
who,  as  Prince  of  Wales,  made  Russell  one  of  his  staff 
companions  on  his  tour  in  India. 

Not  long  before  his  death  I  was  chatting  with  Russell 

124 


DR.    SIR    WILLIAM   RUSSELL — "  BILLY    RUSSELL  "    OF   "  THE    TIMES  "    IN    HIS 

LATTER   DAYS. 


126  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

at  the  Garrick  Club,  and  he  told  me  of  his  first  appearance 
at  The  Times  office.  He  was  a  young  man,  and  naturally 
in  a  state  of  excitement  when  the  editor  sent  for  him. 
On  the  strength  of  the  summons  he  invested  in  a  new 
hat,  gloves,  and  boots,  but  the  boots  were  uncomfortably 
small ;  by  the  time  he  arrived  at  The  Times  office  and 
sank  into  a  chair  in  the  waiting-room  adjoining  the 
editorial  sanctum,  he  could  bear  them  no  longer.  Off 
came  his  boots,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  just  then 
the  door  opened  and  the  great  Delane  appeared  and 
invited  him  into  his  office.  Russell  had  perforce  to  leave 
his  boots  in  the  outer  room,  but  he  sat  down  on  a  chair 
and  tucked  his  legs  as  best  he  could  out  of  sight.  The 
interview  was  satisfactory,  and  when  Russell  rose  to  go 
Delane  noticed  his  bootless  condition.  But  Russell  was 
never  at  a  loss ;  he  explained  the  facts  of  the  case  in  his 
usual  happy  humour,  and  wound  up  his  remarks  by 
thanking  the  editor  for  giving  him  his  opportunity  "  to 
make  good,"  as  the  Americans  say. 

"  Well,"  said  the  editor  with  a  smile,  "  there  is  one 
thing  you  can  always  say,  that  you  came  to  The  Times 
office  without  a  shoe  to  your  foot." 

I  saw  Dr.  Russell  for  the  first  time  at  a  dinner  given 
in  a  private  house.  It  was  rather  a  large  party,  and 
Russell,  at  the  other  side  of  a  long  table,  was,  as  usual, 
the  principal  talker.  One  good  story  followed  another, 
but  between  these  stories  he,  rather  to  my  embarrass- 
ment, fixed  his  eyes  upon  me.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  story- 
teller myself,  but  I  was  then  too  young  and  too  modest 
to  enter  into  the  lists  against  the  famous  raconteur,  yet 
the  look  he  cast  upon  me  suggested  that  he  had  an  idea 
I  should  accept  his  gauntlet.  However,  my  suspicions 
were  incorrect,  and  quite  wide  of  the  mark.  For 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS   AND   "SPECIALS"    127 

directly  after  dinner  Russell  came  up  to  me  and  said, 
"  I  haven't  taken  my  eyes  off  you  all  the  evening,  for  I 
thought  I  was  looking  at  myself  all  the  time.  You  are 
the  very  image  of  what  I  was  at  your  age." 

I  was  then  comparatively  a  youth,  with  wavy  auburn 
locks  and  a  small  moustache,  but  I  was  otherwise  clean- 
shaven and  perhaps  it  was  a  little  difficult  for  me  to 
accept  Russell's  explanation,  as  he  was  then  a  grey- 
haired  man  with  a  grizzled  moustache  and  stout 
figure. 

Billy  Russell  became  very  crotchety  in  his  old  age.  I 
happened  to  criticise  the  War  Office  in  general,  and  Lord 
Wolseley  in  particular.  Russell  attacked  me  savagely  in 
his  Gazette  for  doing  so,  and  I  retaliated  by  sketching 
him  as  a  toady  tuft-hunter.  Such  are  the  amenities  of 
journalistic  life. 

Among  the  artist  war  correspondents  who  followed 
Frank  Vizetelly,  the  first  correspondent  to  lose  his  life,  of 
the  old  days,  was  Sidney  Hall,  who,  from  an  artistic  stand- 
point, ranked  the  highest  of  all.  Up  to  his  day,  and  in 
fact  after  it,  special  artists  were  little  more  than  special 
correspondents.  Like  Melton  Prior  they  gave  a  pictorial 
report  of  military  matters.  Hall  struck  a  new  line  by 
giving  human  incidents  of  the  picturesque  side  of  war, 
culled  from  the  leaves  of  his  sketchbook,  which  appeared 
in  The  Graphic,  then  first  making  its  bow  to  the  public, 
much  the  same  as  "  Ouida  "  did  in  her  delightful  stories 
of  the  village  life  in  France  of  the  Franco-German  War, 
in  her  book  entitled  Leaves  in  the  Storm. 

Melton  Prior  was  the  reporting  style  of  artist,  and  whilst 
Hall  became  an  artist  of  home  affairs,  Prior  remained  the 
"  Special  War  Correspondent  "  up  to  the  end.  He  was 
an  energetic,  businesslike  artist,  with  tremendous  vitality 


128 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


and  a  terribly  shrill  laugh.  He  had  a  large  head,  was 
quite  bald,  and  was  known  as  "  the  screeching  billiard 
ball." 

In  spite  of  his  vast  experience,  Prior  at  times  showed  a 
sad  want  of  tact.  On  one  occasion  Henry  M.  Stanley, 
an  old  war  correspondent  and  the  discoverer  of  Living- 
stone, and  Prior  were  guests  at  a  large  dinner.  Prior 
spoke  first  and  told  a  story  about  Stanley,  who  had  acted 
as  a  special  correspondent  in  the  Ashanti  War,  and  how 
they  met.  The  story  greatly  annoyed  Stanley,  so  in  his 

speech  he  referred  to  his  friend 
"  without  hair."  Stanley  was  very 
proud  of  his,  and  it  is  said  that 
in  that  long  march  of  his  to  dis- 
cover Livingstone,  over  a  score  of 
his  attendants  were  exclusively 
engaged  in  carrying  boxes,  all 
through  those  strenuous  travels, 
which  contained  nothing  but  hair- 
dye  for  Stanley.  His  excuse  was 
that  a  grey  head  has  no  power 
over  the  natives. 

Writing   of   a   younger   genera- 
tion   of     war     correspondents    it 

would  be  difficult  to  place  any  one  above  his  fellows. 
They  were  all  out  to  do  their  best,  and,  unlike  the  doctor, 
have  had  to  rough  it.  I  remember  after  the  Soudan 
campaign  the  Savage  Club  gave  a  dinner  to  a  number 
of  war  correspondents,  for  which,  by  the  way,  I  designed 
the  menu.  Dear  old  G.  A.  Henty  was  in  the  chair,  but 
of  all  the  guests  who  were  members  of  the  club,  only 
one  remains — Fred  Villiers,  who  has  a  fine  record  of  war 
service  ;  others  were  Bennett  Burleigh,  Charles  Williams, 


MELTON   PRIOR. 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS  AND   "SPECIALS" 

Phil  Robinson,  Melton  Prior,  and  Hilary  Skinner,  of  The 
Daily  News,  a  curious  little  wiry  man,  with  close-cut  grey 
hair  and  a  red  face,  a  barrister,  who,  fortunately  for  the 
reporters  of  legal  proceedings,  preferred  war  to  briefs,  for 


SIR  HENRY  M.   STANLEY. 


without  doubt  Skinner  was  the  most  rapid  talker  I  ever 
came  across  in  my  life.  As  Mr.  Aaron  Watson  has  written, 
"  he  (Skinner)  had  a  mind  so  brimming  over  with 
information  of  all  sorts  that  it  poured  out  its  surplusage 
in  cataracts  of  brilliant  and  amusing  talk.  It  was  with 


130  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

difficulty  that  one  followed  such  a  rush  of  impetuous 
words." 

I  recollect  sending  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  The  Standard 
by  Henty — who  was  then  on  the  staff,  and  who  censored 
it — concerning  a  public  sensation  of  the  time,  about  a 
man,  who,  it  was  said,  had  been  hanged  in  a  blundering 
fashion.  In  my  letter  I  suggested  and  proposed,  out 
of  pure  humanity,  that  Mr.  Hilary  Skinner  should  be 
offered  the  post  of  Lord  High  Executioner,  together  with 
a  substantial  salary,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  he 
would  effectually  talk  the  head  off  any  living  man,  and  in 
the  pleasantest  and  most  amusing  manner. 

All  these  war  correspondents  were  men  of  strong 
character,  and  perhaps  the  strongest  of  all  was  Charles 
Williams.  He  was  a  talker  too,  but  also  a  tremendous 
worker.  For  many  years  he  represented  The  Standard ; 
later  on  he  became  editor  of  The  Evening  News.  "  He 
was  a  man  of  restless,  stormy,  and  combative  tempera- 
ment, driving  at  full  speed,  with  something  of  the  force 
of  a  hurricane." 

Bennett  Burleigh  was  another  war  correspondent  of 
considerable  force  and  a  prodigious  worker,  and  a  man 
well  equipped  with  that  quality  indispensable  to  all 
special  correspondents — resource.  I  remember  he  told 
me  how  he  outwitted  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley,  afterwards 
Lord  Wolseley.  I  forget  which  "little  war"  was  the 
one,  but  there  was  much  excitement,  speculation,  and 
doubt  about  the  plan  of  campaign,  and  the  war  corre- 
spondents at  last  in  a  body  interviewed  Wolseley  in  his 
tent.  Sir  Garnet  was  exceedingly  kind  and  hospitable, 
champagne  ^  ras  handed  round,  and  the  general  pointed 
out  the  proposed  route  on  the  map.  The  next  morning 
the  correspondents  lost  no  time  in  taking  it.  Wolseley 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS  AND  "SPECIALS'*    131 

reached  his  destination,  which  was  not  theirs,  but  to  his 
great  surprise  found  Burleigh  awaiting  him.  "  You 
here,  Mr.  Burleigh  ?  You  here  !  "  "  Yes,  General,  I 
listened  to  all  your  instructions  and  then,  as  I  know 
you  better  than  the  others,  I  started  off  in  exactly  the 
opposite  direction  to  the  place  you  mentioned,  and  here 
we  are  !  " 

Phil  Robinson,  the  well-known  war  correspondent, 
was  the  best  liar  I  have  ever  met  in  my  life,  and  I  have 
come  across  a  few  in  my  time ;  but  Phil  Robinson  was 
the  most  finished  and  accomplished.  Lying  with  him 
was  a  fine  art.  He  did  not  lie  to  deceive  or  injure 
any  one.  Every  one  who  knew  Phil — and  every  one  in 
Bohemia  knew  that  versatile  man  and  liked  him — knew 
moreover  that  he  was  lying.  I  recall  many  a  Saturday 
evening  after-dinner  entertainment  at  the  Savage  Club 
in  the  old  days,  when  the  speeches  and  songs,  music  and 
recitations  had  occupied  an  hour  or  two,  a  good-looking, 
well-dressed,  sun-bronzed  man  of  forty  or  forty-five,  with 
silvery,  wavy  hair  and  a  grey  moustache,  and  quiet  move- 
ments typical  of  a  refined  Anglo-Indian  gentleman,  who 
had  travelled  much  and  had  more  than  a  nodding 
acquaintance  with  the  wide  wide  world,  reclining,  one 
arm  on  the  piano  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  puffing 
his  cigar,  and  thus  standing  at  ease  would  enchant  us  all 
for  half  an  hour  or  more  with  some  elaborate  experience 
he  said  had  befallen  him  in  some  far-off  climes.  He 
was  fond  of  introducing  some  minute  detail,  generally 
scientific,  and  often  dealing  with  natural  history,  for 
he  was  one  of  the  best-informed  naturalists  of  his  day, 
and  wrote  delightful  books  on  the  subject.  These  stories 
he  so  graphically  related  made  our  hair  (I  had  a  lot 
to  spare  then),  stand  on  end,  and  yet  we  knew  that 


132  MY   BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

clever  Phil  was  making  it  all  up  as  he  went  along.  As  a 
liar  he  was  unique.  His  patter  was  high-class  nonsense. 
Mr.  Aaron  Watson  gives  the  following  specimen  of  Phil's 
whimsical  way,  in  his  history  of  the  Savage  Club  :  "  I 
was  born  at  Clunar.  It  was  a  freak,  I  confess,  and  in  an 
autobiography  might  call  for  some  explanation,  but  I 
have  none  to  give.  The  fact  of  my  mother  being  at 
Clunar  at  the  time  may,  of  course,  have  had  some  influence 
on  my  selection  of  a  birthplace.  But  apart  from  this 
conjecture,  I  have  no  justification  to  offer,  except  the 
proverbial  thoughtlessness  of  childhood." 

Archibald  Forbes  was  by  far  the  greatest  of  all  war 
correspondents  in  the  old  days.  I  doubt  if  there  will 
ever  be  his  equal;  the  circumstances  that  led  to  his 
superiority  were  uncommon.  He  had  served  for  five 
years  as  a  ranker  in  the  dragoons,  had  previously  been  to 
a  university  from  which,  by  the  way,  he  ran  away,  and 
began  writing,  and  eventually  became  a  journalist.  He 
was  a  man  of  splendid  physique,  determined  in  character, 
and  capable  of  literally  fighting  his  way  through  to  get 
"  off  "  his  dispatches,  a  task  which  in  those  days  required 
much  more  resource  than  it  did  to  see  a  battle  and  write 
its  report.  His  famous  rides  are  historical — relays  of 
horses,  no  sleep  or  rest  for  days  together. 

In  giving  a  picture  of  the  ideal  war  correspondent, 
Forbes  said  :  "  He  must  be  sweet-tempered,  suave,  and 
diplomatic,  but  big  and  ugly  enough  to  command 
respect." 

He  was  big  enough  certainly,  but  it  is  generally  agreed 
that  Forbes  was  one  of  the  worst-tempered  men  of 
his  day.  He  evidently  kept  his  suavity  and  diplomacy 
for  his  private  interviews  with  generals  and  their 
censors. 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS  AND  "SPECIALS"    133 

Forbes,  "  the  most  decorated  journalist  who  ever 
lived,"  seemed  covered  all  over  with  rows  of  medals  and 
foreign  decorations ;  in  fact  it  might  be  said  he  fairly 
glistened  with  them.  At  a  public  dinner  I  could  not 
resist  making  a  rough  caricature  of  him  on  the  back  of 
the  menu  as  a  step-dancer 
or  professional  runner,  or 
acrobat  of  the  kind  seen  in 
photographs,  covered  with 
more  or  less  spurious  trophies 
of  his  prowess.  As  this 
caricature  was  passed  along 
the  table,  Forbes  must  have 
seen  it  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye,  for  a  mutual  friend 
informed  me  afterwards  that 
Forbes  had  been  saying  how 
much  he  disliked  me.  He 
certainly  never  spoke  to  me 
again,  and  as  he  was  a  very 
disagreeable  man  I  was  glad 
of  it. 

I  have  often  squashed  an 
acquaintance  I  did  not  care 
for  by  caricaturing  him  and 
giving  the  caricature  to  the 
man's  best  friend,  who  re- 
ceives it  on  the  condition  and  solemn  promise  he  shall 
never  show  it  to  the  caricatured  friend.  It  is  a  far 
safer  and  more  certain  way  of  dispatching  it  to  the 
right  victim  than  addressing  and  registering  the  sketch 
at  a  post  office. 

Forbes  was  a  Scotchman,  but  he  had  one  joke.     It  is 


ARCHIBALD  FORBES  HAS  'EM 
ALL  ON  ! 


134  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

recorded  in  the  Life  of  the  editor  of  The  Daily  News,  the 
paper  with  which  Forbes  was  connected.  During  the 
Russo-Turkish  War  a  deputation  of  war  correspondents 
with  a  grievance  was  granted  an  interview  with  the  Grand 
Duke  Nicholas ;  as  they  were  going  in,  Forbes,  to  his 
annoyance,  noticed  that  another  Scotch  correspondent 
was  writing  in  a  sketchbook,  making  copy  of  the  inter- 
view while  actually  in  the  presence  of  the  Grand  Duke. 
This  was  too  outrageous :  "  Do  put  that  away.  Can't  you 
carry  what  you  want  in  your  head  ? "  said  Forbes. 
"  I  hae  juist  thought,"  said  the  other,  "  that  I  paid  five 
francs  yesterday  for  dinner  which  I  didna  put  down." 

Frederick  Villiers,  who  has  been  in  more  wars  than  any 
other  living  correspondent,  beginning  with  the  Servian 
War  in  1876,  might  be  called  the  Forbes  of  the  special 
war  artists,  as  William  Simpson,  of  The  Illustrated  London 
News,  was  the  William  Russell  of  the  pencil  of  his  time. 
It  was  he  in  fact  who  first  started  sketching  on  the 
battlefield.  There  are  many  names  of  those  who  at 
one  time  served  as  war  correspondents,  names  too  which 
would  probably  surprise  some  of  my  readers  to-day. 
Among  these  may  be  mentioned  Sir  H.  M.  Stanley,  the 
explorer ;  Stephen  Crane,  William  Black,  author  of  A 
Daughter  of  Heth,  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton, 
Green  Pastures  in  Piccadilly,  etc.,  and  many  other  literary 
men  of  the  past.  I  doubt  if  the  man  in  the  street  discuss- 
ing Mr.  Winston  Churchill  to-day  remembers  that  he 
was  a  war  correspondent  in  the  South  African  War. 

I  might  have  been  one  myself — but  my  chance  came 
too  late.  In  fact  it  is  only  three  years  ago  since  I  was 
actually  offered  a  commission  as  special  artist  attached 
to  a  battalion  of  kilted  Canadians.  It  so  happened  that 
one  of  my  three  sons  is  in  the  Canadian  Engineers,  and 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS  AND   "SPECIALS"    135 

the  other  two  are  serving  in  Scottish  regiments,  and  I 
figured  myself  appearing  before  them  as  I  have  depicted 
in  the  accompanying  sketch — an  apparition  which  surely 
would  have  had  a  more  disastrous  effect  upon  my  sons 
than  many  of  the  dangers  threatened  by  the  Huns. 
"  Our  Special  Correspondent,"  the  descriptive  writer 

of  the  type  of  George 
Augustus  Sala  and  Godfrey 
Turner,  requires  a  special 
talent. 

Turner  was  the  indirect 
cause  of  one  of  the  greatest 
sensations  in  London. 
While  in  the  Zoo  one  day, 
having  some  refreshment 
at  one  of  the  bars,  he 
noticed  the  barmaid  seemed 
sad  and  tearful.  Turner 
inquired  sympathetically  as 
to  the  cause. 

"  Oh,  sir,  dear  Jumbo, 
our  biggest  elephant,  has 
been  sold  and  is  going 
away.  The  Gardens  will 
not  be  the  same  without 
him ;  we  are  all  broken-hearted." 

Turner  was  touched,  and  he  wrote  a  stirring  appeal, 
which  eventually  worked  up  public  excitement  to  fever 
heat. 

"  Jumbo "  became  the  one  topic  of  conversation ; 
crowds  flocked  to  the  Gardens ;  ladies  arrived  in  carriages 
with  boxes  of  sweetmeats  for  "  dear  Jumbo,"  angry 
letters  appeared  in  the  press  protesting  against  his  removal. 


I   MIGHT  HAVE   BEEN  ONE 
MYSELF." 


i36 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


leading  articles  were  written,  and  a  furious  controversy 
raged  for  a  considerable  time,  until  his  final  departure  for 
the  States. 

War  correspondents  only  come  to  the  surface  when 
there  is  a  campaign ;  for  a  brief  time  they  enjoy  the 
most  exciting  experience  in  journalism.  They  are  "  it," 


they  spend  money  like  princes  and  return  as  heroes ; 
they  appear  on  lecture  platforms  in  their  war-paint  or  in 
evening  dress  a  la  Forbes,  their  coats  ablaze  with  foreign 
orders,  or  hanging  from  ribbons  round  their  neck.  They 
appear  in  the  limelight  and  are  then  lost  from  view  until 
the  next  war  brings  them  forth  again. 

JBut  there  is  another  special  correspondent,  one  who 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS   AND   "SPECIALS"    137 

serves  his  paper  in  peace-time  and  has  the  power  to 
make  war  or  prevent  it.  Among  the  latter  number 
some  of  the  most  remarkable  Bohemians  on  the  press. 
It  is  their  duty  to  root  out  thieves  who  are  "  in  the 
know."  They  are,  in  a  way,  detectives  of  journalism, 
and,  to  be  successful,  must  use  every  artifice  which  the 
wit  of  man  can  devise.  For  that  reason  they  do  not 
beard  the  lions  of  diplomacy  in  their  dens,  they  only 
roar  to  bluff  the  world.  The  journalist's  special  duty  is 
to  find  out  the  truth  by  circumventing  officialism,  and 
by  meeting  all  sorts  of  "  knowing  ones  "  outside  the  official 
pale  in  a  Bohemian  way. 

In  the  old  days  the  biggest  of  these  journalists  in 
deed,  but  the  smallest  in  stature,  was  undoubtedly 
Blowitz.  He  was  the  smallest  man  with  the  longest 
name :  Henri  Georges  Stephane  Adolphe  Opper  de 
Blowitz,  the  famous  Times  correspondent  in  Paris,  whom 
I  only  met  once.  It  happened  when  I  first  visited  Paris 
with  Sir  John  Staats  Forbes — the  railway  magnate.  We 
were  examining  the  pictures  at  the  Salon  when  I  observed 
a  very  talkative,  very  tiny  and  elaborately  got-up  old 
gentleman  going  the  rounds.  "  Who  is  that  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Why,  do  you  not  know  our  Times  correspondent, 
Blowitz  ?  "  "I  read  him  every  morning  with  great 
interest,  but  I  never  saw  him  before."  John  Staats 
Forbes — who  knew  everybody — stopped  Blowitz,  and 
I  was  introduced  to  him  as  a  great  admirer.  "  This  is 
Furniss,  our  famous  cartoonist.  Let  me  introduce  one 
little  man  of  fame  to  another."  Blowitz  in  all  proba- 
bility had  never  heard  of  me.  He  certainly  looked  blank, 
and  snappishly  replied  :  "  There  are  small  men  and  small 
men."  "  Certainly,"  I  replied,  "  there  is  Marshal 
Canrobert  sitting  on  the  couch  over  there,  and  not  far 


138  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

from  here  is  a  great  monument  to  a  little  man  known  as 
Napoleon." 

On  reflection,  I  didn't  think  there  was  much  point 
in  my  repartee,  but  it  served  to  set  Blowitz  blowing  off 
verbal  steam  on  the  genial  Forbes  (he  ignored  me),  and 
gave  me  time  to  study  and  sketch  the  odd  little  man. 
I  subsequently  discussed  with  Forbes  a  curious  point. 
Could  Blowitz — who  was  smaller  than  I — reach  high 
enough  to  place  his  hat  on  a  peg  in  a  restaurant  ?  I  could 
just  do  it  with  an  effort,  but  could  Blowitz  ?  The  peg 
upon  which  Blowitz  made  his  name  and  brought  tre- 
mendous "  kudos "  to  The  Times  was  an  account  of  the 
sitting  of  the  famous  Berlin  Treaty  Tribunal,  which,  in 
Disraeli's  words,  brought  England  "  Peace  with  Honour  " 
and  appeared  in  The  Times  in  spite  of  the  strictest  secrecy 
being  maintained,  and  in  spite  of  all  precautions.  There 
was  no  doubt  Blowitz  was  closely  watched.  How  was 
it  done  ?  It  appears  Blowitz  dined  every  evening  at  a 
certain  restaurant ;  next  to  him,  but  at  another  table, 
sat  a  minor  official  engaged  at  the  Tribunal ;  neither 
spoke  or  even  looked  at  each  other.  Every  time  Blowitz 
rose  to  go  he  took  the  other  man's  hat  and  left  his  own  ; 
in  the  lining  of  that  hat  were  the  secret  notes  of  council 
of  that  day. 

Blowitz  was  a  Jew  born  in  Bohemia.  For  several  years 
he  was  a  teacher  of  German  at  various  French  Iycees9 
besides  being  a  prolific  journalist.  He  was  a  great  friend 
of  another  very  small  man,  M.  Thiers,  who  at  the  time 
of  the  Franco-German  War  gave  him  his  full  support 
and  assistance.  He  became  a  naturalised  Frenchman 
and  received  the  Legion  of  Honour.  He  was  one  of 
the  first  "  interviewers,"  and  supplied  pen  portraits, 
as  well  as  the  important  opinions  of  the  most  prominent 


HENRI    GEORGES   STEPHANK    ADOLPHE    OPPER    DE    BLOWITZ. 


139 


140  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

men,  including  Prince  Bismarck.  He  at  that  time  sent 
a  most  interesting  and  sensational  account  of  a  private 
meeting  of  diplomatists  to  The  Times,  but  subsequently 
informed  the  editor  it  was  purely  imaginary — such  a 
meeting  had  never  taken  place.  The  reply  came  that 
if  he  could  write  so  well  of  something  which  never  hap- 
pened, he  would  be  invaluable  in  supplying  copy  about 
matter  which  really  occurred,  so  thenceforth  he  became 
The  Times  correspondent. 

Another  famous  Times  correspondent  was  G.  Smalley 
the  first  London  correspondent  to  The  Tribune  of  New 
York.  He  crossed  over,  and  after  a  time  acted  as  the 
New  York  correspondent  to  The  Times,  London.  I  met 
him  frequently  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  once 
gave  him  a  sensational  headline.  In  one  of  my  visits  to 
America  I  was  present  at  a  famous  dinner  in  New  York. 
Seated  next  to  Chauncy  Depew  was  a  man  I  had  not 
seen  before,  the  Chief  of  Police  in  New  York,  who  rose 
to  speak.  Depew  nudged  me  and  said,  "  Here's  a  subject 
for  your  pencil — watch  him."  I  could  not  help  watching 
him,  I  never  beheld  a  more  ugly  man.  He  grinned  and 
showed  two  rows  of  the  most  aggressive-looking  teeth: 
he  was  all  teeth,  oratorically  aggressive,  but  brilliant  in 
effect.  It  was  the  first  address  he  made  as  a  bid  for  a 
political  career  ;  he  proceeded  with  his  speech  and  I 
sketched  him  gradually  being  transformed  into  a  bulldog, 
and  these  sketches  appeared  in  The  New  York  Herald,  the 
following  Sunday.  A  few  years  later,  when  Roosevelt — 
for  it  was  Roosevelt  I  sketched — was  elected  President  of 
the  United  States,  Smalley  telegraphed  over  "  The 
bulldog  of  America  is  elected  President,"  so  evidently 
my  caricature  was  remembered. 

I  told  a  story,  in  a  book  of  mine  published  fifteen  years 


WAR   CORRESPONDENTS  AND  "SPECIALS"    141 

ago,  of  Smalley,  when  over  in  England  for  The  Tribune, 
interviewing  or  rather  attempting  to  interview  Lord 
Tennyson,  the  Poet  Laureate;  but  as  I  did  not  then 
mention  his  name,  I  may  be  pardoned  referring  to  it 
here.  Smalley,  who  in  those  days  considered  himself  a 
great  dandy,  turned  up  at  Hasle- 
mere  for  the  interview  dressed 
in  the  pink  of  fashion ;  a  silk 
hat  of  dazzling  newness,  light 
summer  overcoat,  lavender  trou- 
sers, and  patent-leather  shoes. 
The  Poet  Laureate  greeted  him 
on  the  doorstep  with  a  question : 
"  Fond  of  pigs  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  guess  I  am,"  replied 
Smalley. 

"  Follow  me  then,"  said  Tenny- 
son, leading  him  through  the 
filthy  yard  to  the  pigsty. 

"  'Ain't  she  a  beauty ! — eh  ? 
a  charmer ! "  remarked  the  poet 
as  he  scratched  the  back  of  the 
biggest  sow,  and  added,  address- 
ing the  sow,  "  You  like  inter- 
viewing ? "  (scratch).  "Appreciate 
the  honour,  my  beauty,  eh  ? " 
(scratch).  And  turning  to  Smalley  he  held  out  his  hand, 
and  said,  "  Sir,  good  morning,"  and  so  the  interview 
terminated. 

Smalley  was  a  very  conscientious  worker,  and  he  in- 
sisted upon  personally  posting  his  own  copy,  no  matter 
where  he  happened  to  be.  Whilst  on  a  visit  to  some 
friends  in  the  country,  who  always  sent  their  letters  by 


G.   SMALLEY. 


14*  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

a  groom  on  horseback  to  the  post-office  in  the  nearest 
village,  Smalley,  no  matter  how  bad  the  weather  might 
be,  walked  to  the  post-office  and  posted  his  own  letters. 
One  day  the  postmistress  observed — at  least,  Smalley 
declared  he  heard  the  remark — "  That  gent  must  be 
carrying  on  with  some  lady,  he  must,  or  he  wouldn't 
be  so  mighty  particular  about  posting  4s  letters  'imself." 
And  as  Smalley  posed  as  a  lady-killer  he  was  not  displeased. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SOME   MUSICAL   MEMORIES 

Opera  "  gods "— "  A  'norrible  tale  !  "— Foli  and  Foley— Emily  Soldene 
in  The  Grand  Duchess — Sir  James  O'Dowd — Patti — A  triumph  of 
song — Ragging  a  singer — "  Teddy  "  Solomon  and  Sullivan 

I  WAS  but  a  boy  when  I  had  my  baptism  of  opera,  or  to  be 
correct,  my  baptism  of  the  opera  audience  at  the  Old 
Theatre  Royal,  Dublin,  of  that  time ;  the  "  gods "  were 
the  self-elected  directors  of  the  evening's  amusement. 
They  were  young  gentlemen  of  the  "  'Varsity "  who 
gained  their  position  by  a  free  fight  at  the  gallery  doors 
and  up  the  stairs.  Once  in  possession  of  the  top  gallery 
they  divested  themselves  of  their  coats  and  waistcoats, 
which  they  hung  over  the  railings  in  front.  Oranges, 
eggs,  pea-shooters,  penny  whistles  were  produced,  and 
the  "  fun  "  became  fast  and  furious.  The  sight  of  a 
white  hat  in  the  pit  was  their  hearts'  desire :  cat-calls, 
personal  threats,  and,  what  was  worse,  missiles  of  all 
descriptions  were  hurled  at  the  unfortunate  wearer  of 
that  white  hat.  The  orchestra  might  play,  the  curtain 
might  rise,  managers  might  come  and  go,  but  the  row 
went  on  till  the  hat  went  out. 

That  was  not  all,  for  before  the  opera  was  allowed  to 
begin,  the  "  gods "  elected  their  own   singer   to   open 

m 


144  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

the  programme.  Mr.  Crotty,  afterwards  a  well-known 
vocalist,  was  then  the  "  gods'  "  bright  particular  star. 
When  he  had  finished  the  opera  might  begin.  Sometimes 
the  exuberance  of  the  "  gods "  was  carried  to  extremes. 
Little  packets  of  cayenne  pepper  were  thrown  up  to  the 
ceiling,  and  as  soon  as  the  packets  burst  and  the  contents 
spread,  a  general  sneezing  occurred.  Sometimes  the 
police  were  obliged  to  interfere,  and  I  recollect  one 
night  the  students  surrounded  the  "  payler  "  (Irish  for 
"  peeler  ")  stripped  him  of  his  uniform,  stuffed  clothes 
into  it,  stuck  on  the  helmet  and  tied  on  the  boots,  and 
after  a  tremendous  struggle  called  out,  "  Over  with 
him  !  Chuck  the  payler  !  "  and  over  the  dummy  police- 
man went.  This  sort  of  thing,  after  all,  was  only  aristo- 
cratic larrikinism,  or  hooliganism,  a  boyish  exuberance 
which,  being  vulgarised  in  time,  lost  all  sense  of  fun  and 
spontaneity.  There  were  one  or  two  incidents  in  these 
unruly  proceedings  not  altogether  unpleasing.  For 
instance,  the  prima  donna,  if  a  favourite,  would  on  the 
last  night  receive  a  present  from  the  "  gods,"  tied  round 
the  neck  of  a  pigeon  lowered  from  the  gallery,  and  after- 
wards the  horses  from  the  favourite  singer's  carriage 
were  unharnessed,  and  the  "  gods "  dragged  her  in  triumph 
to  her  hotel,  to  be  repaid  by  a  song  from  the  balcony. 

J.  L.  Toole  was  fond  of  telling  a  story  of  the  "  gods " 
in  Dublin  when  he  was  playing  the  "  Gravedigger,"  with 
T.  C.  King  as  Hamlet.  No  sooner  had  Toole  stepped 
into  the  grave,  warbling  "  A  pick  and  axe,"  etc.,  than  the 
gallery  called  out  for  him  to  sing  "  A  'norrible  tale !  " 
and  kept  on  calling  until  the  manager  came  before  the 
curtain  and  made  a  speech  drawing  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  play  was  a  tragedy  by  Shakespeare,  and  not 
a  modern  farce,  and  that  neither  the  actor  nor  he  could 


10 


146  MY  BOHEMIAN  GAYS 

desecrate  the  Bard  by  introducing  comic  songs ;  at  the 
close  of  which  the  Gallery  shouted,  "  Go  to  bed  ;  go  to 
bed !  " 

The  favourite  American  actress,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  in  her 
Stage  Reminiscences ,  includes  an  amusing  incident  that 
occurred  during  the  performance  of  Faust  in  Dublin. 
Something  went  wrong  with  the  trap  that  should  have 
let  Mephistopheles  down  to  the  lower  regions.  He  stuck 
half-way,  and  all  the  efforts  of  the  stage  carpenters  failing 
to  move  him  down  to  the  underworld,  the  curtain  was 
lowered.  A  voice  from  the  gallery  shouted,  "  Hurrah  ! 
boys,  hell's  full !  " 

Signor  Foli  was  a  tremendous  favourite  :  his  real  name 
was  Foley.  Strange  that  another  Irishman,  a  famous 
sculptor,  found  that  name  good  enough  to  retain  and 
make  famous,  but  that  singers,  actors,  and  variety 
performers,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  must  needs 
change  theirs !  Foli  sang  in  the  first  opera  I  ever  saw, 
Don  Giovanni.  Then  the  opera  season  in  Dublin  was  a 
short,  merry,  and  expensive  one.  The  two  rival  opera 
companies  in  London  combined  and  went  over  to 
Dublin,  so  we  had  double  "  stars "  (and  double  prices). 
It  was  the  day  of  Titiens,  the  Bettinis,  Nillson,  lima  de 
Murska,  Campobello,  the  return  of  Mario  to  the  opera, 
and  others  I  forget. 

"  I  go  through  "  my  operas,  as  the  Americans  would 
say,  "  pretty  quick,"  and  when  I  came  to  London  I 
seldom  went  to  them  except  to  make  sketches,  finding 
the  opera  boufe  much  more  to  my  taste. 

How  well  I  remember  my  delight — a  delight  shared 
by  millions  of  theatre-goers  in  the  good  old  days  of 
Offenbach,  witnessing  that  never-to-be-equalled  Grand 
Duchess^  when  Miss  Emily  Soldene  sang  in  it.  Emily 


SOME  MUSICAL  MEMORIES 


147 


Soldene  was  not  only  a  wonderful  actress  and  singer,  but 
all  those  who  have  read  her  reminiscences  must  admit 
she  was  also  a  very  clever  woman,  "  a  damn  fine 
woman,"  as  the  men  about  town  would  say,  though  it 
did  not  always  mean  a  pretty  one.  Soldene  was  decidedly 
plain,  and  her  mouth  was  certainly  the  largest  I  have 
ever  seen  on  the  stage.  I  was  making  sketches  of  her 
in  the  part,  and  seated  next  to  the  dramatic  critic  of  the 
paper  we  were  both  working  for. 
I  roughed  in  Soldene's  face  and 
then  put  my  sketch  down  for  so 
long  a  time  my  friend  asked  me  if 
I  was  not  satisfied  with  the  like- 
ness, which  seemed  to  him  a  very 
good  one.  "  It  is  not  finished,"  I 
replied ;  "I  cannot  sketch  the 
ends  of  her  mouth  till  she  turns 
her  back." 

When  The  Grand  Duchess  was 
revived  in  later  years,  I  cut  the 
following  paragraph  out  of  some 
criticism — I  forget  by  whom : 
"  *  Very  good  :  but  wants  Garlic.'  That  is  the  general 
verdict  on  the  revised  Grand  Duchess  at  the  Savoy. 
When  an  essentially  French  piece — French  in  conception, 
French  in  execution,  French  in  music,  French  in  spirit 
— is  produced  at  the  Savoy,  it  ought  to  be  cooked  a  la 
Savoy  Restaurant — not  a  la  Savoy  Theatre.  It  has  been 
Cockneyfied  up  to  date,  and  a  '  Rule  Britannia '  composer 
has  obligingly  improved  M.  Offenbach's  orchestration, 
for  which  Paris  will  be  very  grateful.  Voltaire  looked 
upon  Shakespeare  as  a  barbarian,  and  wrote  a  fricasseed 
Othello.  Offenbach  has  evidently  a  great  future  before 


MISS   EMILY   SOLDENE. 


148 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


him,   but  alas !   the  spirit   of  Offenbach's  conceptions 
departed  with  him." 

For  many  years  I  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of  Sir 
James  O'Dowd,  C.B.,  late  Judge  Advocate-General, 
affectionately  known  as  "  O'D."  O'D  was  a  genuine 
operatic  enthusiast — as  keen  a  lover  of  the  opera  at  the 

patriarchal  age  of 
three-score  years  and 
ten  as  he  was  in  the 
days  of  his  youth. 
It  was  a  treat  to 
listen  to  the  con- 
versation, when  a 
friend  had  just  re- 
turned from  a  visit 
to  the  opera,  to  dis- 
cuss the  performance 
with  O'Dowd  in  the 
smoking-room  of  the 
Garrick.  One  of 
the  shrewdest  mu- 
sicians assured  me 
that  "Jimmy's" 
knowledge  of  operatic 
music  was  truly  mar- 
vellous ;  though,  I  will  admit,  it  was  his  descriptions 
of  the  musicians  and  their  personalities  that  charmed 
me  most. 

"  Jimmy  O'Dowd  "  could  remember  the  first  appear- 
ance of  the  greatest  songstress  of  our  day,  Patti — and  he 
was  fond  of  recalling  the  incident.  O'Dowd  was  a 
privileged  visitor  behind  the  scenes  in  the  days  of  that 
wonderful  manager,  Harris,  father  of  the  even  better- 


SIR   JAMES   O'DOWD,   A  FRIEND   OF 
THACKERAY. 


SOME  MUSICAL  MEMORIES  149 

known  Sir  Augustus  Harris ;  and  one  evening  old  Harris 
said  casually  to  O'Dowd,  "  Look  in  at  Covent  Garden 
on  Monday  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  O'Dowd." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  rehearsing  a  chit  of  a  girl  this  morning, 
and  she  enchanted  me.  She  is  not  more  than  eighteen 
or  nineteen,  and  has  yet  much  to  learn.  She  did  not 
create  the  best  impression  at  rehearsal,  and  indeed  she 
may  never  be  great." 

O'Dowd  went  round  to  Covent  Garden,  and  stood  in 
the  wings  during  the  opera.  The  new  singer  did  not 
take  the  house  by  storm,  and  when  the  curtain  finally 
fell,  so  did  many  a  tear  down  the  pretty  face  of  the 
trembling  debutante,  sadly  mixing  with  the  make-up. 
Old  Harris,  however,  to  the  surprise  of  O'Dowd,  rushed 
up  to  Patti  and  kissed  her.  It  was  the  seal  of  her  triumph, 
as  facts  afterwards  proved. 

Some  years  ago  a  disgraceful  scene  took  place  in  the 
Albert  Hall.  Patti  was  unwell,  but  rather  than  disap- 
point the  public,  sang  two  songs.  Her  audience  insisted 
upon  encores,  and  as  she  was  unable  to  comply  they 
hooted  and  hissed. 

I  was  mentioning  this  incident  to  Mr.  Otto  Gold- 
schmidt,  the  widower  of  Jenny  Lind,  at  dinner  one  night 
soon  after  it  occurred,  and  he  told  me  that  his  wife  made 
a  strict  rule,  to  which  she  made  no  exception,  that  she 
would  never  take  an  encore.  But  there  was  the  in- 
evitable exception !  It  happened  at  Sheffield.  Jenny 
Lind  had  sung  her  two  songs  and  returned  to  be  loudly 
encored  by  her  many  admirers  for  several  minutes,  with 
cries  for  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  but  Madame  did  not 
budge.  Presently  the  audience,  her  husband  informed 
me,  raised  their  voices  and  sang  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  " 


150  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

in  chorus,  and  sang  it  so  well  that  Jenny  Lind  was  touched. 
With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  slowly  moved  on  to  the  stage 
and  as  the  last  verse  started  she  sang  it  with  them.  The 
scene  after  this  was  indescribable,  but  these  good 
musicians  "  cum  fra  Sheffield,"  and  Jenny  Lind  said  she 
had  never  heard  the  song  so  well  sung  before. 

When  we  all  were  young  men,  practical  joking  was  far 
more  prevalent  and  far  more  elaborate  than  it  is  in  the 
ranks  of  the  rising  generation.  We  spared  no  pains  or 
trouble,  and  sometimes,  I  fear,  carried  the  joke  too  far. 
I  recall  an  episode  in  the  late  seventies.  My  friends  had 
decided  to  publicly  "  rag,"  as  the  term  is  used  nowadays, 
a  singer  who  had  foisted  himself  upon  the  public,  a 
musical  quack,  a  self-advertised,  aggressively  offensive 
individual  who  was — in  a  measure — the  talk  of  the  town. 
It  was  therefore  decided  to  make  his  much-boomed  con- 
cert ridiculous.  A  costermonger  or  two  arrived  early, 
to  be  refused  admission,  but  upon  assuring  the  box-office 
officials  that  it  was  their  admiration  for  the  photograph 
(then  exhibited  in  every  window)  of  the  "  greatest  singer 
on  earth,"  these  cleverly  made-up  costers  were  given 
back  seats. 

George  Grossmith  posed  as  a  lunatic,  seated  in  the 
centre  of  the  gallery  with  his  keeper  by  his  side,  and  in 
the  middle  of  the  concert-giver's  most  sentimental  songs 
dropped  into  the  sloping  gangway  below  coppers,  one 
by  one,  which  rolled  all  the  way  down  to  the  platform, 
or  took  side  turns,  coming  to  the  feet  of  the  audience. 
His  brother,  Weedon,  sat  in  the  front  row  of  the  stalls 
and  occasionally  rose  angrily  and  asked  those  seated 
behind  to  sit  down  or  he  could  not  see  the  stage.  But 
where  was  Beerbohm  Tree  ?  He  had  promised  to  join 
the  merry  band  of  "  raggers."  Possibly  he  would  appear 


SOME  MUSICAL  MEMORIES 

as  a  foreign  potentate  in  one  of  the  boxes,  or  assume 
being  a  rival  pianist — who  had  called  for  his  fee — or, 
well,  Tree  was  so  good  at  disguises  he  could  appear  as 
anything. 


When  the  fun  was  at  its  height  he  did  appear — as  Tree 
himself  !  He  stood  at  the  side  of  the  stalls,  and  applauded 
the  victim's  singing.  He  turned  an  angry  face  to  our 
funny  friends,  and  cried  out  "  Shame  !  Shame  !  "  He 
then  fetched  a  policeman  and  had  two  of  the  ringleaders 
arrested  for  disturbing  the  performance,  and  they  were 


153  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

removed.  To  this  day  I  cannot  say  if  Tree — forgetting 
the  compact — was  genuinely  annoyed  by  the  outrageous 
conduct  of  his  friends,  or  whether  he  was  not  the  greatest 
practical  joker  of  the  lot ! 

I  recollect  one  Saturday  evening  at  the  house  dinner 
of  the  Junior  Garrick  Club  in  Adam  Street,  Adelphi. 
Webber,  an  able  man,  but  coarse  and  rude  in  speech, 
with  a  fine,  handsome  face,  a  bear  in  Bohemia  who 
attacked  every  one,  particularly  those  who  gained  a  certain 
modicum  of  success.  He  interrupted  a  speaker  who  was 
referring  to  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's  great  musical  talent  by 
bawling  out  that  Sullivan  was  a  fraud,  and  never  wrote 
an  original  piece  of  music  in  his  life.  This  idea  I  heard 
demonstrated  on  another  occasion  in  another  club  by 
"  Teddy  "  Solomon,  a  very  talented  composer,  who  had 
emanated  from  Covent  Garden  Market.  This  young 
genius  had  been,  I  believe,  a  pupil  of  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  ; 
his  light  operas  and  extravaganzas  at  the  Gaiety  and  other 
theatres  showed  him  to  be  a  not  unworthy  successor  to 
Sullivan,  but  he  died  at  a  comparatively  early  age. 

I  have  been  present  when  he  sat  at  the  piano  and  began 
by  playing  familiar  church  music,  and  then,  by  degrees, 
altered  the  melody  and  time,  working  it  into  some  well- 
known  piece  from  Sullivan's  operas.  I  am  not  musical, 
so  I  cannot  say  if  this  was  a  libel  on  Sullivan  or  not,  but 
it  had  certainly  a  very  remarkable  effect. 

Sullivan  was  not  only  a  great  genius,  but  a  very  popular 
and  delightful  personality.  The  last  time  I  spoke  to 
him  was  at  the  Clef  Club,  Birmingham ;  he  had  just 
arrived  to  deliver  his  presidential  address  at  the  Birming- 
ham and  Midland  Institute.  The  same  evening  I  was 
myself  giving  one  of  my  lecture-entertainments  close  by 
the  institute.  Poor  Sullivan  was  very  ill.  "  Fancy  me 


SOME  MUSICAL  MEMORIES  153 

Furniss,  fortifying  myself  with  a  lemon  squash  for  the 
trying  ordeal  I  have  to  go  through  this  evening." 

"  It  is  a  good  thing,"  I  said,  "  you  had  not  to  write 
your  music  for  Gilbert  under  the  same  conditions." 

"  You're  right,"  was  his  rejoinder. 

It  makes  me  wonder  if  we  shall  have  any  geniuses 
when  the  world  is  made  "  dry."  I  fear  not. 


CHAPTER  XII 

UPPER-CLASS    BOHEMIA 

The  Amphitryon — Colonel  North  as  Falstaff — A  dear  "  snack  " — Lord 
Chaplin— Ten-shilling  Cigars— The  Beefsteak  Club— "Ape"  and 
Lord  Beaconsfield — Earl  of  Kilmorey 

UPPER-CLASS  Bohemianism  had  a  pub — they  termed  a 
club — of  their  own,  or  rather  a  club-restaurant,  known 
as  "  The  Amphitryon."  The  chef,  of  European  reputa- 
tion, had  been  induced  to  start  this  in  London  by  those 
extravagant  English  abroad  who  grumble  about  every- 
thing English  when  they  are  out  of  their  own  country. 
Well,  he  came — he  served — and  he  charged !  Did  he 
not  charge  ! 

An  old  friend  of  mine,  and  an  old  "  Savage,"  Thomas 
Cutler,  a  well-known  architect  in  his  day,  built  a 
mansion  for  the  millionaire  Colonel  North,  "  the  Nitrate 
King."  The  Colonel  refused  to  pay  the  architect,  so 
a  trial  took  place  before  Lord  Chief  Justice  Coleridge. 
I  made  a  drawing  for  Punch  entitled  "  Shakespeare  and 
North,  not  Christopher." 

"  Colonel  North  is  popularly  supposed  to  have  been  the 
architect  of  his  own  fortune,  but  he  does  not  seem  to 
have  profited  much  by  his  architectural  knowledge  when 
applied  to  house  building.  The  burly  Colonel — we  for- 
get at  this  moment  what  regiment  is  under  his  distin- 

154 


UPPER-CLASS  BOHEMIA 


155 


guished  command — has  met  many  a  great  personage  in 
his  time,  but  like  the  eminent  barbarian  who  encountered 
a  great  European  for  the  first  time — St.  Ambrose,  we 
rather  think  it  was,  but  no  matter— our  bold  Colonel 
had  to  climb  down  a  bit  on  coming  face  to  face  with 


COLONEL  NORTH   AS   FALSTAFF. 


the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England.  What  a  cast  for 
a  scene  out  of  Henry  the  Fourth  \  Falstaff,  Colonel 
North,  and  my  Lord  Coleridge  for  the  Lord  Chief  Justice. 
The  scene  might  be  Part  II,  Act  II,  Scene  I,  when  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  says  to  Sir  John,  "  You  speak  as  having 
power  to  do  wrong ;  but  answer,  in  the  effect  of  your 


156  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

reputation,   and   satisfy   the   poor  woman ; "   only  for 
"  woman  "  read  "  architect." 

To  celebrate  his  success  in  the  action,  Cutler  gave  a 
dinner,  to  which  I  was  invited.  Unfortunately  I  was 
that  night  giving  my  lecture  on  the  "  Humours  of 
Parliament,"  in  St.  James's  Hall,  and  wrote  my  friend 
Cutler  the  architect  regretting  that  "  I  could  not  be 
present  at  the  '  Cutler's  Feast.9 '  He  replied  asking 
me  to  join  the  party  after  my  show,  and  it  was  agreed 
that  I  should.  Cutler's  feast  was,  I  believe,  excellent. 
It  was  in  a  private  room,  and  Cutler  paid  Hke  a  hero, 
like  an  Amphitryon  in  fact,  for  his  victory ;  he  was  bled 
for  his  friends. 

It  was  arranged  that  when  I  arrived  I  should  have  a 
snack  in  the  restaurant  below.  I  had  a  cutlet,  a  small 
bottle  of  claret,  and  a  biscuit,  and  then  joined  the  party. 
I  forget  what  Colonel  North's  victor  paid  for  the  dinner 
I  did  not  have,  but  out  of  curiosity  I  asked  what  my  old 
friend  had  paid  for  my  snack.  Five  shillings  ?  Seven- 
and-sixpence  ?  Eh  ?  What  ?  No  !  Three  guineas !  I 
was  not  surprised. 

Another  friend  of  mine,  a  member  of  the  "  Club," 
invited  two  friends  to  a  "  little  refreshment  "  after  the 
theatre.  Two  ladies  and  my  friend — three  cutlets,  one 
bottle  of  champagne,  coffee.  Bill :  six  pounds  ten 
shillings ! 

I  dined  one  night  with  Henry  Chaplin,  M.P.,  now  Lord 
Chaplin,  in  this  "  dear "  little  private  room.  There 
were  present  A.  J.  Balfour,  Lord  Randolph  Churchill, 
and  one  or  two  others.  The  champagne  was  brought 
from  our  host's  own  cellar ;  the  Waterloo  port  and  the 
one-hundred-year-old  brandy  were  also  from  his  own 
cellar.  But  there  was  one  thing  our  host  did  not  provide, 


LORD   CHAPLIN. 
'57 


158  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

for  he  was  no  connoisseur — he  does  not  smoke  cigars. 
We  had  the  Amphitryon  brand — long,  torpedo-looking 
cigars  wrapped  in  silver  paper.  It  happened  that  our 
host  and  I  went  down  to  the  House  of  Commons  after 
dinner  in  the  same  cab.  As  I  say,  our  host  is  not  a 
smoker,  thus  the  reason  we  had  the  "  Club  "  cigar.  I 
could  not  smoke  it ;  like  myself,  it  could  not  draw.  My 
host,  noticing  this,  asked  me  was  it  good — no  ?  Then  he 
confided — he  told  me  what  he  paid  for  them — ten 
shillings  each !  The  Amphitryon  has  closed  its  doors 
long  ago. 

The  Beefsteak  Club  is  perhaps  the  most  Bohemian 
club  in  existence,  besides  being  the  most  exclusive.  It 
opens  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  holds  its 
general  committee  meetings  at  midnight.  I  enjoyed 
being  a  member  for  many  years,  and  only  retired  from  it 
when  I  left  London  a  few  years  ago  to  live  in  the  country. 

When  I  first  became  a  member  it  had  not  long  been 
started,  and  was  housed  over  Toole's  Theatre,  where  it 
remained  until  Charing  Cross  Hospital  bought  the 
property  to  enlarge  the  hospital.  There  was  a  narrow, 
awkward  staircase  up  to  the  club  rooms,  with  a  rope  fixed 
by  the  wall  to  aid  one  in  getting  up  and  down.  Such  is 
the  peculiar  conservatism  of  Bohemia  that  when  its  new 
premises  were  built,  with  no  limitations  regarding  space, 
the  Beefsteakers  insisted  upon  a  narrow  door  and 
awkward  stairs  and  a  rope  fixed  to  the  wall !  Even  the 
interior  was  copied  as  closely  as  possible. 

The  members  all  sit  at  one  large  long  table,  and  every- 
thing is  arranged  to  resemble  a  charming  dining-room  in 
an  old  country  house.  The  company  consisted,  all  the 
years  I  knew  it,  of  the  most  interesting  men  about  town. 
The  cuisine  was  of  the  best,  and  Savarin  might  have  been 


UPPER-CLASS  BOHEMIA 


159 


its  chef.  It  had  a  president,  but  there  was  nothing  formal 
or  orthodox  about  the  position.  So  fascinating  was  the 
company  I  have  often  "  looked  in  "  at  the  club  to  "  get 
some  dinner,"  intending  afterwards  to  meet  my  family 
at  the  theatre,  and  found  myself  still  dining  at  eleven 
o'clock  and  barely  time  to  fetch  my  family  from  the 
theatre. 


"  APE  "  CATCHING  THE  LAST  OF  BBACONSFIBLD. 

It  was  said  that  if  one  heard  a  good  new  story  it  would 
be  necessary  to  jump  into  a  hansom  and  rush  to  the 
Beefsteak,  otherwise  it  would  be  there  before  you. 
Pellegrini,  the  celebrated  Vanity  Fair  caricaturist,  was 
its  bright  particular  star  in  its  early  days ;  the  Duke  of 
Beaufort,  Sir  Henry  de  Bathe — the  Beefsteak  B's  alone 
would  fill  a  page,  so  why  mention  names  ?  Members 


160  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

of  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  the  diplomatic  service, 
sport,  literature,  art,  the  drama,  law,  and  science  were 
all  brilliantly  represented.  No  strangers  were  ever 
admitted. 

Lord  Rowton,  so  well  known  as  Monty  Corry,  was  a 
familiar  figure  at  the  Beefsteak.  He  was  official  com- 
panion to  Lord  Beaconsfield,  and  seemed  to  us  when  he 
arrived  at  the  club  to  dinner  to  be  always  in  high  efferves- 
cent spirits.  Yet  Sir  Squire  Bancroft  tells  us  that  when 
he  and  Rowton  were  walking  home  one  night  from  the 
Beefsteak,  he  stopped  suddenly  and  said  reflectively, 
"  The  whole  of  my  life  seems  to  have  been  passed  in 
holding  my  tongue." 

The  caricaturist  Pellegrini  appealed  to  "  Monty  "  to 
try  to  persuade  Beaconsfield  to  sit  to  him  for  Vanity  Fair. 

"  Can't  be  done,  Carlo  !  "  was  the  reply.  "  But  I'll 
trot  him  out  of  doors  for  you  to-morrow,  and  walk  him 
up  and  down  till  you  have  made  your  sketch,  and  he  will 
be  none  the  wiser." 

And  that  was  how  it  was  done. 

The  Marquess  of  Granby  of  those  days  was  an  aristocratic 
Bohemian,  with  a  leaning  towards  the  stage,  and  so  was 
the  late  Earl  of  Kilmorey,  with  a  practical  interest  as 
a  landlord  of  theatres  and  a  producer  of  stage  plays. 
When  I  met  him  last  he  was  interested  in  another  sort 
of  stage  many,  many  miles  away  from  the  Strand,  London. 
It  was  at  Adelaide,  in  Australia,  where  it  was  proposed 
to  build  a  harbour  and  landing  stage,  which  is,  I  believe, 
still  badly  required.  As  I  stood  talking  to  him  of  the 
Garrick  and  Beefsteak  Clubs  in  which  we  were  in  the 
habit  of  meeting,  I  thought  how  strange  he  looked  in 
oilskins  and  seafaring  boots  after  the  familiar  man-about- 
town  get-up  in  London  Bohemia  ! 


II 


THE   EARL   OF    KILMOREY 
161 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SOME    NOTABLE    "FIRST    NIGHTS  "    AND    OTHER    THINGS 
THEATRICAL 

Two  houses  a  night — Macbeth — Public  and  private  performance — 
Signer  Salvini — Trelatvny  of  the  Wells — Toole  and  the  nuts — "  An 
overgrown  Cupid  " — The  Colonel — My  huge  poster — An  elaborate 
practical  joke — Anne  Mie — The  Alhambra  laundry — Jacobi — Miss 
Terry  in  The  Cup — Irving  as  lago— Cutting  the  Baddeley  Cake 

FOR  many  years  I  was  on  the  first-night  list,  and  with 
few  exceptions  witnessed  all  the  more  important  pro- 
ductions, a  record  that  was  broken  at  last  by  my 
"  lecture  "  tours  when  I  was  travelling  the  provinces, 
America,  and  the  Colonies. 

I  have  been  such  an  ardent  playgoer  that  I  have 
actually  seen  on  one  night  two  whole  plays,  played 
simultaneously  in  two  separate  theatres.  It  was  a  mere 
coincidence,  not  done  for  a  wager,  and  any  one  could 
have  laid  any  odds  against  my  success  had  I  thought  of 
it  in  time,  and,  I  may  add,  had  I  been  a  betting  man  ;  as 
a  matter  of  fact  I  never  made  a  bet  in  my  life. 

It  occurred  in  this  way.  I  had  seats  on  the  same 
night  for  a  performance  at  the  Haymarket  and  at  His 
Majesty's.  I  had  friends  in  both  plays.  I  saw  one 
scene  at  His  Majesty's,  crossed  the  road,  saw  the  first 
scene  at  the  Haymarket,  and  so  on.  It  so  happened  that 

162 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        163 

the  acts  fitted  in.  The  acts  were  fewer  at  the  Hay- 
market  and  the  waits  were  longer.  But  I  got  the  two 
plays  so  inextricably  mixed  that  I  never  tried  the  experi- 
ment again. 

The  first  night  of  Tennyson's  Promise  of  May  at  the 
Lyceum  was  almost  wrecked  by  one  unfortunate  line 
which,  by  some  extraordinary  oversight,  had  survived 
readings  and  rehearsals.  The  same  night,  by  the  way 
the  Marquess  of  Queensberry  created  a  scene  by  address- 
ing the  audience  from  a  box. 


SEEING   TWO   PLAYS   IN   ONE   EVENING. 

On  the  first  night  of  Ravenswood  the  curtain  rose  so 
quickly  on  the  second  act  that  Irving  was  discovered 
running  across  the  stage,  calling  out  to  the  supers,  and 
hanging  on  to  the  end  of  a  piece  of  vanishing  scenery. 

The  first  night  of  Wilson  Barrett's  Hamlet,  and,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  Tree's  also,  were  nights  to  remember ! 
It  was  on  the  latter  occasion  that  a  wit  remarked  that 
a  conclusive  way  to  settle  the  vexed  question  whether 
Shakespeare  or  Bacon  wrote  the  play  was  to  see  if  Shake- 
speare had  turned  in  his  grave. 

I  was  particularly  struck  with  the  first  night  of  Macbeth 
at  the  Lyceum.  Irving  was  a  failure  in  the  part  from 


164 


MY    BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


the  moment  he  entered.  His  reading  was  wrong :  no 
doubt  from  a  student's  point  of  view  it  was  right  to  make 
Macbeth  a  weak  coward,  but  from  a  theatrical  point  of 
view  it  was  wrong.  He  had  no  stuffing  in  him,  and  the 


IRVING  RECITES   MACBETH. 


audience  felt  they  had  none  either.  Miss  Terry  acted 
to  a  certain  extent  as  an  antidote — she  was  not  Lady 
Macbeth,  but  that  didn't  matter — she  was  a  woman. 
Irving's  Macbeth  could  hardly  be  termed  a  man.  In  fact, 
Irving's  Macbeth  had  not  a  redeeming  feature ;  neither 
did  it  interest  me.  But  I  had  a  great  awakening  later. 


IRVING    AS  MACBETH 
1*5 


166  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

It  was  in  Scotland.  I  was  lecturing,  Irving  playing 
Macbeth.  We  met  at  supper  in  Irving's  rooms,  five  or 
six  of  us,  quite  a  little  private  affair,  including  a  cele- 
brated Scotch  critic.  Naturally  the  conversation  turned 
upon  Irving's  rendering  of  the  part.  The  Scotchman 
took  exception  to  it ;  Macbeth  may  have  been  a  black- 
guard, but  he  was  no  coward.  This  roused  Irving  ;  he 
neglected  his  supper,  and  recited  long  passages  of  the  play 
to  confirm  his  opinion.  The  Scotch  critic  barely  got 
in  a  word,  and  then  he  only  inflamed  Irving  to  greater 
exertions.  I  never  saw  Irving  to  better  advantage.  It 
was  an  intellectual  treat,  and  for  the  time  I  firmly  be- 
lieved that  Irving  was  right,  and  all  other  actors  wrong. 
I  thought  this  conscientiously — until  I  saw  him  play  it 
again  on  the  stage,  and  then  I  changed  my  mind  again. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  first  night  I  remember  was  the 
appearance  of  Signer  Salvini,  the  greatest  actor  I  ever 
saw,  as  Othello  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  April  1875. 
I  was  then  twenty,  but  no  performance  had  I  seen  be- 
fore or  have  I  seen  since  that  so  impressed  me  as  that. 
From  the  moment  he  walked  on  to  those  classic  boards — 
to  use  the  hackneyed  phrase — to  the  fall  of  the  curtain, 
the  house  was  enthralled.  His  voice,  his  manner,  his 
method,  and  above  all,  his  eyes,  combined  to  make  that 
performance  ever  memorable.  He  was  frightfully 
handicapped,  for  his  "  support "  was  atrocious  and  his 
scenery  unworthy  of  a  village  booth.  In  those  days  I 
patronised  the  top  gallery,  satisfied  with  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  the  stage,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  vile  carpet  of 
large  square  pattern — the  most  aggressive  covering  I 
ever  saw  on  any  boards,  used  in  the  bedroom  scene,  where 
the  Moor  suffocates  Desdemona  ;  yet,  blinding  as  it  was, 
Salvini's  personality  and  wonderful  facial  expression 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        167 

rose  above  it.  Then  that  wonderful  scene  with  lago, 
where  the  wretch  is  crawling  on  the  ground :  Salvini 
raised  his  foot  as  if  to  crush  his  head,  then  suddenly 


SALVINI. 


stopped  and,  remembering  his  dignity,  he  courteously 
offers  his  hand  to  the  traitor  to  rise. 

Strange  to  say,  Salvini  was  not  introduced  into  this 
country  by  any  theatrical  manager.  He  was  brought 
here  by  Mapleson  of  opera  fame,  which  gave  the 
humorists  that  evening  some  ground  for  chaff  and  calls 


168  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

for  a  song  when  the  stage  was  not  occupied  by  the  great 
tragedian  himself.  Salvini  took  London  by  storm,  but 
so  fickle  is  the  public  taste  that  when  the  grand  actor 
next  visited  England  he  played  to  eight  pounds ! 

Among  those  pieces  which  I  had  to  sketch  for  the  press 
was  Tom  Cobb,  one  of  Mr.  W.  S.  Gilbert's  wittiest  pro- 
ductions. It  was  of  the  Dickens,  mid-Victorian  order 
of  plays,  plenty  of  strongly-drawn  character — impe- 
cunious Bob  Sawyers  and  others  in  Bohemian  London 
life.  E.  W.  Royce,  I  remember,  and  Miss  Lytton. 

It  is  strange  nowadays  that  such  plays  as  Tom  Cobb, 
Our  Boys,  and  of  more  recent  date  Trelawny  of  the 
Wells,  plays  dealing  with  the  artistic,  professional,  and 
theatrical  life  of  our  fathers,  are  not  appreciated  as  they 
should  be  by  the  rising  generation.  In  Pinero's  clever 
production  Trelawny  of  the  Wells,  Mr.  Dion  Bouci- 
cault,  as  the  old  Whig  Vice-Chancellor,  puts  round  his 
neck  the  chain  worn  by  Kean  in  one  of  his  finest  im- 
personations, in  truth  a  touching  scene.  The  youths  in 
the  stalls  tittered.  They  little  saw  the  pathos.  It  was 
specially  pathetic,  as  this  chain  was  the  actual  one  that 
really  was  worn  by  the  great  Kean. 

A  play  of  the  same  class  was  another  I  had  to  illustrate 
when  I  was  a  young  artist — Wig  and  Gown,  by  James 
Albery.  It  was  produced  by  Johnny  Toole  at  the  Globe 
Theatre  and  was  not  a  success.  I  remember  on  the  first 
night  Toole  felt  this.  The  house,  strange  to  say,  was  not 
crammed.  The  critics  were  there — in  those  days  they 
were  not  so  numerous  as  now — and  they  were  satisfied 
with  one  seat  instead  of,  as  now,  two  or  three ;  but  the 
public  were  absent,  and,  as  I  say,  the  piece  was  falling 
flat.  Toole  represented  a  briefless  barrister  of  the  mid- 
Victorian  era — Micawberlike  surroundings,  including  a 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        169 

numerous  family ;  one  of  these,  to  add  to  the  realism, 
had  brought  into  the  theatre  a  bag  of  nuts,  which  the 
children  crunched  and  dropped  about  the  stage.  These 
poor  Toole,  as  the  barrister,  crushed  under  his  feet  as  he 
ran  about  the  stage.  He  ended  by  stopping  the  play 
to  lecture  the  children  for  turning  his  scene  into  a  monkey 
house  in  the  Zoo.  Poor  Toole  never  really  held  London. 
Towards  the  end  of  his  career,  The  House  Boat  was  cer- 
tainly a  success,  but  for  many  years  he  played  to  ridi- 
culously poor  houses 
in  London  and  made 
his  money  in  the  pro- 
vinces. 

One  of  the  funniest 
first  nights  the  editor 
of  Punch  and  I  at- 
tended was  the  debut 
of  the  "  greatest  tra- 
gedian America  has 
ever  produced," 
Misther  M'Cullough, 
begorrah !  who  ap- 
peared as  Virginius  at 

Drury  Lane.  M'Cullough  was  a  huge,  strong-lunged, 
mouthing  actor,  who  filled  the  Drury  Lane  stage  with 
his  massive  figure,  and  the  house  with  his  tremendous 
voice.  But  the  fun  came  when  no  less  a  person  than 
Sir  Augustus  Harris  danced  on  to  the  stage,  in  a  curly 
wig,  flowing  blue  toga,  pink  tights,  and  gilt-edged 
boots — as  Burnand  said,  "rather  suggestive  of  an  over- 
grown Cupid  who  has  given  up  his  wings  as  childish, 
and  who  has  taken  lessons  from  a  Parisian  ballet- 
master." 


SIR   AUGUSTUS   HARRIS  AS  A   CUPID. 


iyo  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Harris  was  all  the  time  fancying  himself  in  the  part, 
a  youthful,  Roman  young  man  of  the  Harristociacy — 
the  pun  is  Burnand's.  Poor  Harris — a  genius  as  a 
theatrical  manager,  who  rose  to  do  great  things — was 
the  worst  possible  actor. 

The  aesthetic  craze  was  just  then  fair  game,  and  I  per- 
petrated a  skit  for  Punch  showing  "  The  Cheap  ^Esthetic 
Swell,"  'ow  'Any  goes  in  for  the  "  intense  'eat." 

Twopence  I  gave  for  my  sunshade, 

A  penny  I  gave  for  my  fan, 
Threepence  I  paid  for  my  straw — foreign  made — 

I'm  a  Japan-^Esthetic  young  man  ! 

This  parody  of  Gilbert  reminds  me  that  it  is  in  the  same 
volume  (1881)  that  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  successful 
operas  (which  have  since  been  the  delight  of  theatre-goers 
the  world  over)  are  first  mentioned  in  the  pages  of  Punch. 
It  is  no  secret  that  Sir  Francis  Burnand  never  forgave 
Sullivan  for  having  Gilbert  in  place  of  Burnand  for 
his  librettist.  Burnand  and  Sullivan  had  done  Cox 
and  Box  (a  parody  of  Box  and  Cox).  Then  Gilbert 
stepped  in  with  The  Trial  by  Jury,  and  exit  Burnand. 
Gilbert,  however,  was  not  a  parodist,  but  an  originator. 
Patience  is  not  a  copy  of  anything.  The  Colonel — in 
which  Burnand  "  took  off "  the  aesthetic  craze  and  was 
so  successful  at  the  old  Prince  of  Wales  that  it  was  not 
taken  off  until  he  (F.C.B.)  and  Edgar  Bruce  made  a  huge 
pile  out  of  it — was  a  parody  of  the  play  The  Serious 
Family.  The  original  cast  included  that  inimitable 
actor  Charles  Coghlan,  representing  a  Colonel  from 
America,  who  was  very  much  Coghlan  and  very  little  of 
an  American.  Miss  Myra  Holme — afterwards  Lady 
Pinero — was  the  charming  heroine  :  and  Amy  Roselle 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        171 

(one  of  the  original  "  Two  Roses "),  then  Mrs.  Dacre, 
played  the  Society  lady,  and  with  her  husband  com- 
mitted suicide  in  Australia  a  few  years  later.  Edgar 
Bruce  subsequently  played  the  Colonel  in  London,  and 
Charles  Collette  played  the  same  character  in  the 
provinces  as  well  as  London.  Young  Buckstone  was 
capital  as  the  aesthetic  artist.  It  ran  so  long  the  com- 
pany produced  an  evening  paper  to  pass  the  "  waits  " 
in  the  green  room,  the  only  instance,  I  should  imagine, 
of  journalistic  enterprise  behind  the  scenes. 

I  was  a  great  deal  at  the  theatre,  for,  after  the  play  had 
run  a  considerable  time  and  Edgar  Bruce  came  into  it, 
he  and  Burnand  decided  to  add  fresh  interest  by 
advertising,  and  I  was  selected  to  do  a  huge  poster — 
one  of  the  largest  ever  painted.  I  carried  it  out  in  the 
manner  of  a  Burne-Jones  decorative  pageant,  and  the 
players  came  to  my  studio  and  sat  to  me  in  their  stage 
costumes.  So  large  was  the  work  I  had  the  canvas 
stretched  on  a  frame  in  my  studio  and  was  obliged  to 
have  the  window  removed  to  get  it  out  when  completed. 
I  never  got  anything  for  it — like  another  poster  of  mine, 
"  I  used  your  soap  two  years  ago,"  the  editor  of  Punch 
got  the  one,  and  the  proprietors  of  Punch  were  paid 
through  advertisements  for  the  other. 

The  most  elaborate  practical  joke,  extending  over 
years,  figures  in  one  of  my  earliest  recollections  of  London, 
the  author  and  principal  player  of  which  was  that  prince 
of  practical  fun,  the  late  E.  A.  Sothern,  the  original 
Dundreary,  and  the  first  and  most  polished  player  of 
David  Garrick.  Strange  to  say,  Sir  Charles  Wyndham's 
David  Garrick,  familiar  to  playgoers  of  later  date,  was 
second  performer  in  playing  that  joke. 

I  was  just  old  enough  to  enjoy  the  David  Garrick  of 


172 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


Sothern,  which,  comparing  it  to  Wyndham's,  resembles 
a  Gainsborough  portrait  compared  to  one  painted  by 
Herkomer.  The  secret  of  Art  is  to  conceal  Art.  Herkomer, 
a  great  painter,  was  a  mannerist,  and  in  his  pictures  the 

personality  of  the 
painter  is  not  con- 
cealed. In  Wynd- 
ham's Garrick  the 
actor  was  still  the 
actor,  but  Sothern 
was  the  gentleman 
playing  the  actor. 
In  all  other  Gar- 
ricks  I  have  seen 
the  actor  is  playing 
the  gentleman. 

In  playing  the 
practical  jokeWynd- 
ham  was  also  a 
very  good  second 
to  Sothern,  and  in 
no  joke  better  than 
in  this  one,  played, 
by  the  way,  upon 
another  volatile 
comedian,  a  very 
long  way  in  talent 
behind  either  of  those  two  great  comedians  whom  I 
have  mentioned.  I  refer  to  the  late  Edgar  Bruce, 
who  played  "  The  Colonel,"  and  who  died  a  few 
years  ago  in  perfect  ignorance,  I  believe,  that  the 
following  practical  joke  had  made  his  life  a  success. 
I  have  no  sympathy  with  jokes,  "  practical "  or 


MY   POSTER   FOR   "  THE   COLONEL." 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        173 

otherwise,  which  end  in  giving  pain,  but  in  some  scenes 
of  this  joke  I  was  a  mere  spectator  at  a  distance.  It 
began  at  a  Saturday  evening  house  dinner  in  the  Junior 
Garrick,  a  theatrical  club  long  since  defunct.  Edgar 
Bruce,  who  was  a  good-looking  but  excitable  and  am- 
bitious actor,  with  a  very  light  and  airy  style,  and  of  a 
nervous  and  inquisitive  nature,  was  present.  A  stranger 
was  seated  near  to  Sothern.  "  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Bruce 
of  every  one,  and  of  Sothern  in  particular. 

"  Sh-h-h !  Wait  and  see,"  mysteriously  whispered 
Sothern.  "  I'll  introduce  him  after  dinner.  You  wait : 
most  important." 

The  dinner  proceeded,  Sothern  apparently  paying  the 
greatest  deference  to  his  guest — his  guest  was  probably 
Mr.  Brown,  of  Oldham,  or  any  very  ordinary  individual. 
Sothern  was  inspired,  however,  to  make  him  an 
ambassador  from  the  Czar  of  Russia,  or  some  such 
potentate.  The  club  was  at  the  corner  of  Adam 
Street  and  Adelphi  Terrace,  and  at  that  time  Atten- 
borough's  most  famous  pawnbroking  shop  was  close 
by,  at  the  Strand  corner  of  Adam  Street.  To  send 
a  message  from  Sothern  and  borrow  some  foreign 
orders,  Russian,  if  possible,  was  easily  accomplished 
during  the  dinner. 

After  dinner  the  "  Ambassador  "  was  formally  intro- 
duced by  Sothern,  who  explained  to  all  present  (all  of 
whom  were  in  the  joke  except  Bruce)  that  the  Czar  had 
determined,  regardless  of  cost,  to  have  a  series  of  English 
comedies  performed  at  St.  Petersburg,  by  the  best  actors 
and  actresses  of  England.  Already  hearing  of  the  fame 
of  many  he  had,  through  his  special  Ambassador,  sent 
greetings  to  those  at  present  selected.  Those  selected 
were  formally  mentioned  and  presented,  Bruce  excepted  ; 


174  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

and  the  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act  of  the  comedy,  Bruce 
in  the  centre,  the  picture  of  despair. 

The  second  act  was  a  letter  to  Bruce  from  the  Czar 
(really  sent  from  Russia),  explaining  that  the  Czar  had 
selected  him  to  be  the  manager  of  the  whole  company, 
and  enclosing  him  a  Russian  order  of  merit.  One  stipula- 
tion was  made,  however :  that  Bruce  must  know  the 
Russian  language.  The  more  famous  Bruce  of  spider 
fame  was  eclipsed  in  perseverance  by  Edgar  of  that 
(adopted)  name  and  in  tackling  the  fearsome  Russian 
tongue. 

The  next  act  consisted  of  a  series  of  pretty  scenes : 
Edgar  in  a  boat  on  a  Thames  backwater,  alone,  struggling 
with  Russian,  and  Bruce  in  the  land  of  despair,  still 
wrestling  with  the  Slavonic  lingo — triumphant  at  last, 
alas !  merely  to  be  crushed  again. 

The  next  scene  was  an  interior — in  which  I  played  a 
super's  part.  The  studio  of  that  talented  and  hand- 
some artist  Valentine  Bromley  (the  Forbes  Robertson's 
brother-in-law),  in  Hart  Street,  Bloomsbury,  in  which 
was  being  held  a  "  Smoking  Evening,"  popular  in  those 
days ;  artists,  authors,  and  other  Bohemians ;  music, 
smoking,  and  drinking,  supplemented  later  by  the  actors 
arriving  in  force.  Bruce  is  there,  as  usual  talking  of 
Russia,  the  Russian  language,  and  the  coming  great  event 
— the  tour  of  the  picked  comedians  of  England,  personally 
conducted  by  himself.  Sothern  is  present,  so  is 
Wyndham.  Soon  after  midnight  the  fun  begins,  the 
studio  is  crowded  and  the  smoke  is  thick,  the  chatter 
deafening,  when  above  all  rises  the  penetrating  voice  of 
Charles  Wyndham.  What  does  he  say  ?  Why  does 
Bruce  start  forward  ?  Why  is  he  so  agitated  and 
pale  ? 


BDGAR   BRUCB   STUDYING   RUSSIAN. 
'75 


i?6  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

The  Russian  tour  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  jealousy, hatred, 
and  malice. 

There  is  a  scuffle — high  words  which  nearly  lead  to 
blows.  Friends  separate  Wyndham  and  Sothern,  and 
they  leave  swearing  eternal  hatred,  and  others  join  in 
the  melee.  The  leading  actors  of  England  are  hopelessly 
riotous. 

The  tour  to  the  Czar  is  in  jeopardy. 

The  next  scene  is  in  Wyndham's  bedroom  later,  the 
same  morning.  Bruce  arrives  at  the  break  of  morn 
with  Sothern,  whom  he  has  waked  out  of  his  sleep  and 
made  to  dress,  and  brought  in  a  cab  to  shake  hands  and 
"  make  friends  "  with  Wyndham.  So  far  so  good.  All 
except  poor  Bruce  are  getting  some  fun  out  of  the  joke, 
but  the  authors  are  troubled  how  to  end  it.  It  has  gone 
so  far  that  Bruce  must  not  discover  the  truth,  or  the 
last  act  would  be  bound  to  take  place  in  Colney  Hatch, 
and  it  therefore  must  end  in  a  practical  way. 

A  letter  arrives  from  Russia  regretting  that  the  Czar 
has  been — through  political  reasons — compelled  to 
abandon  the  projected  tour.  Poor  Bruce  !  Well,  he 
was  given  the  management  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre 
as  a  recompense ;  he  made  money,  retired,  lived  and 
died  happily,  I  believe  in  ignorance  that  he  owed  his 
good  fortune  to  a  practical  joke  ! 

My  first  efforts  in  Punch  were  confined  to  the  three 
P's — Parliament,  Pictures,  and  the  Playhouse.  I  was 
then  the  regular  theatrical  artist  for  Punch,  and  in  that 
capacity  saw  many  interesting  first  nights. 

The  first  night  I  represented  Mr.  Punch  as  a  "  Special 
Artist  "  at  the  theatre  was  shortly  after  I  began  to  draw 
for  that  paper.  The  piece  was  Anne  Mie ;  the  theatre, 
the  Prince  of  Wales  (the  old  "  Dust  Hole,"  subsequently 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        177 

"  the  golden  dust  hole  of  the  Bancrofts ").  But  there 
was  very  little  gold  dust,  I  fear,  extracted  from  that 
play.  It  was  made  ridiculous  by  a  very  clever  lady  and 
really  fine  actress,  Miss  Genevieve  Ward — famous  in 
many  parts,  but  particularly  in  Forget-Me-Not — a  lady 
who,  in  every  sense,  "  fills  the  stage "  with  her  fine 
presence,  splendid  elocution,  and  intense  acting. 

The  old  Prince  of  Wales  little  play-box  of  a  theatre — 
the  Bancrofts'  money-box — was  not  a  large  stage  to  "  fill," 
and  when  Miss  Genevieve  Ward  entered  as  Anne  Mie, 
wearing  a  little  Dutch  cap  and  short  padded  Dutch 
skirts,  with  bare  arms  and  an  arch,  skittish  look,  supposed 
to  represent  a  beautiful  young  ravishing  maiden  of 
seventeen  summers,  my  editor,  seated  next  to  me,  saw 
that  the  burlesque-writers'  occupation,  like  Othello's, 
had  gone.  It  was  drama  and  burlesque  rolled  into  one. 
I  made  a  cruel,  a  very  cruel  sketch  at  the  critical  moment 
of  the  play,  when  with  fine  histrionic  force  Miss  Ward 
threw  herself  down  on  her  face  on  the  stage.  The  house 
had  become  unmannerly  just  before  by  laughing  at  Anne 
Mie  sitting  on  the  knee  of  Edgar  Bruce,  who  vainly  tried 
to  dance  the  coy  little  Anne  in  the  playful  way  befitting 
a  dollish  Dutch  child.  But  the  audience  really  became 
solemn — for  the  acting  was  excellent — when  Anne  Mie 
went  down.  Well,  my  sketch  was  something  like  this, 


"  ANNE    MIE   FALLS   A   LITTLE   FLAT.' 
12 


178  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

and  under  it  I  wrote,  "  About  this  time  Anne  Mie  falls 
a  little  flat.  Annie  Mie  has  a  slight  difficulty  in  rising 
again  in  public  estimation." 

The  editor  and  I  visited  the  Alhambra  to  see  a  new 
ballet — as  if  such  a  thing  can  be  described  as  "  new." 
Plum  puddings,  of  course,  are  new  every  year,  but  they 
are  made  of  the  same  ingredients  ;  one  ballet  is  as  much 
like  another  as  one  plum  pudding  resembles  another  plum 
pudding. 

Curiously  enough,  the  first  ballet  the  editor  and  my- 
self saw  "  in  the  interest  of  Mr.  Punch  "  was  a  steaming 
hot  affair,  its  success  depending  on  a  curious  novelty — 
a  volume  of  steam,  leapt  over  by  the  principal  dancer 
with  the  aid  of  a  rope,  rising  right  across  the  stage. 
Burnand  suggested  that  this  vapour  ascended  from  a 
steam-laundry  somewhere  below. 

While  the  ballet  was  in  full  swing,  the  designer  came 
into  our  box,  a  rather  foppish  old  beau,  who  interested 
me  immensely,  for  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  him  and 
seen  much  of  his  work.  This  was  Alfred  Thompson,  at 
one  time  quite  a  celebrity  in  London  as  a  caricaturist, 
satirical  writer,  playwright,  ballet  producer,  and  Bo- 
hemian of  the  foppish,  waxed-moustache,  ex-military, 
hat-on-one-side  style  of  old-young  man  about  town. 
Burnand,  who  knew  him  well,  chaffed  him  about  the 
steam  effect.  "  My  young  friend  Furniss  and  I  have 
decided  to  support  the  show  by  getting  our  wives  to  send 
our  weekly  washing  and  mangling  to  be  done  a  la 
Alhambra.  You  ought,  my  dear  Alfred,  to  publish  a 
list  of  laundry  prices  on  the  back  of  the  programme, 
and,  by  the  way — happy  thought ! — engage  Johnny  Toole 
to  appear  up  a  trap  in  the  scene  with  his  old  gag — '  I  am 
so  'appy ! ' 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS 


179 


Burnand  was  also  facetious  when  the  composer  of  the 
music,  Jacobs,  came  in  to  see  us,  and  asked  him  if  his 
beautiful  dress  shirt  was  not  dressed  in  the  "  Alhambra 
Laundry."  Jacobi  was  a  great  personality  for  many 
years  at  the  Alhambra.  When  conducting  he  did  not 
turn  his  back  on  the  audience,  but  on  the  orchestra  he 
was  conducting,  and  faced 
the  stalls. 

A  first  night  of  great 
importance  was  the  pro- 
duction of  the  then  Poet 
Laureate's  play,  The  Cup, 
at  the  Lyceum.  It  just 
came  at  the  right  moment, 
for  the  aesthetic  craze  was 
then  at  its  height,  and 
this  play  was  asstheticism 
or  nothing.  One  test  of 
a  play  is  the  number  of 
its  revivals.  The  Cup 
was  never  revived  again, 
either  as  a  compliment 
to  Tennyson  or  to  Irving. 

Itwas  a  very  picturesque 
series  of  tableaux  in  the 
style  of  the  greenery-yallery  Burne-Jonesy  production, 
Miss  Terry  as  Camma  might  have  walked  out  of  a  mangle 
— or  a  Burne-Jones  picture.  She  lay  on  a  couch  a  good 
deal  of  the  time,  playing  a  harp  shaped  like  a  goose. 
Irving  as  Synorix,  in  a  tiger  skin  and  bangles,  a  wreath  on 
his  head  and  a  weakness  in  his  knees,  might,  but  for  the 
latter  failing,  have  represented  a  tamer  of  wild  beasts. 
There  were  no  beasts,  however,  but  a  number  of  wild 


JACOBI. 


i8o  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

dogs  led  in  by  Terriss  as  Sinnatus.     They  all  went  to  the 
dogs  in  a  short  time,  and  as  Burnand  wrote  : 

"  So  there  is  an  end  of  one,  two,  and  three  — 
Terriss  and  Irving  and  Ellen 


An  interesting  experiment  was  tried  at  the  Lyceum 
when  Othello  was  produced  on  May  2nd,  1881.  Booth, 
the  American  tragedian,  had  not  been  a  great  success  in 
England,  his  stagey,  old-fashioned  style  failing  to  impress 
the  British  public  as  it  had  the  American.  An  idea 
struck  Irving  —  or  rather  Irving's  manager  —  that  it  would 
be  a  draw  in  London  to  work  up  this  Anglo-American 
combination  of  "  stars." 

It  was  arranged  that  Irving  and  Booth  should  alternate 
the  leading  parts,  a  happy  idea  that  doubled  their 
audience,  for  if  one  saw  Booth  as  Othello,  one  would  go 
a  second  time  to  see  him  as  lago. 

Irving  never  did  anything  finer  than  lago,  for  his 
peculiar  mannerism  suited  the  part  exactly,  nor  perhaps 
anything  so  badly  as  Othello.  Booth  was  not  good  as 
lago,  particularly  after  Irving  ;  but  his  Othello,  though 
not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  day  as  Salvini's,  was 
respectable  compared  with  Irving's. 

Irving's  lago  impressed  the  audience  from  the  first 
moment  he  entered  on  the  first  night,  and  his  success 
was  assured.  His  "  business  "  was  elaborate  and  novel. 
As  he  stood  by  a  sundial  with  a  huge  bunch  of  hothouse 
grapes  in  his  hand,  eating  them  one  by  one,  lustily,  with 
a  foxlike  expression,  it  struck  one  the  real  lago  was  there  ! 

One  of  my  earliest  theatrical  recollections  in  London 
was  being  invited  to  the  Twelfth  Night  gathering  known 
as  "  Cutting  the  Baddeley  Cake,"  in  old  Drury  Lane 
Theatre. 


IRVING   AS   IAGO. 


z8a 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


An  obscure  actor,  Baddeley,  an  ex-cook,  chef  to  the 
famous  Lord  North ;  also  employed  by  Samuel  Foote, 
in  whose  house  no  doubt  he  was  inspired  to  emulate  the 
great  actors  of  the  day.  Eventually  he  did  gratify  his 
ambition,  but  so  as  to  rid  himself  of  the  flavour  of  the 
kitchen,  he  tra- 
velled as  valet  to 
a  gentleman,  and 
it  is  on  record  that 
Baddeley  first  ap- 
peared as  an  actor 
at  Smock  Alley 
Theatre,  Dublin. 
Foote,  it  is  said, 
was  present  when 


his 

appearance,  and 
noticing  the  new 
actor  wore  a  sword 
exclaimed,  "  Ha, 
Baddeley,  I  am 
heartily  glad  to 
see  you  in  the  way 
of  complete  trans- 
migration—  you 
have  turned  your 
spit  into  a  sword  already."  He  returned  to  London  to 
become  a  member  of  the  better-known  playhouse,  Drury 
Lane,  there  to  gain  certain  applause  for  his  acting  of 
Frenchmen  and  Jew  characters.  And  he  left  behind 
him  a  curious  will  which  has  made  his  name  more 
familiar  to  the  play-going  public  to  this  day  than  any 
actor  with  the  exception  of  Kemble,  Kean,  Macready, 


IRVING   AS  OTHELLO. 


SOME  NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        183 

and  Phelps,  who  have  made  Old  Drury  famous. 
Baddeley  did  not  forget  his  first  profession  nor  his  last 
in  this  provision  in  his  will : 

"  One  hundred  pounds  Three  per  Cent.  Consolidated 
Bank  Annuities,  which  produce  ^3  per  Annum,  to 
purchase  a  Twelfth-Cake,  with  wine  and  punch,  which 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  are 
requested  to  partake  of  every  Twelfth  Night  in  the 
Green-room." 

As  I  say,  I  recollect  being  present,  in  my  early  days  in 
London,  at  the  carrying-out  of  this  unique  request. 
The  small  gathering  was  in  the  green  room.  The 
Clown,  Pantaloon,  Harlequin,  Columbine,  and  Sprite 
were  in  their  "  make-ups,"  as  they  ran  off  the  stage  at 
the  fall  of  the  curtain.  Some  of  the  others  were  also  in 
costume,  but  the  majority  had  changed  into  their 
ordinary  clothes.  Manager  Chatterton  made  a  few  re- 
marks about  the  ex-cook's  goodness  of  heart. 

It  was  an  unassuming,  Bohemian,  motley  gathering 
on  the  Twelfth  Night.  The  Columbine  cut  the  cake, 
and  the  Clown  made  a  serious  speech.  Punch,  wine, 
cake  and  all  soon  disappeared,  the  little  Fairies  finishing 
their  slice  as  they  hurried  away  to  their  homes  through 
the  snow. 

The  next  Baddeley  Cake  celebration  I  was  invited  to, 
a  few  years  afterwards,  was  held  on  the  stage.  More 
guests  were  present.  The  "  sherry  wine  "  was  super- 
seded by  champagne,  but  the  punch-bowl  was  flowing 
over  and  the  cake  was  conspicuous.  The  Clown  and  his 
associates,  and  the  little  Fairies  and  Sprites  were  there. 
The  pantomime  Prince,  now  in  petticoats,  made  a  speech 


184  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

standing  on  a  chair.  I  recollect  being  rather  startled  in 
the  middle  of  the  speechifying  by  seeing  a  huge  knife 
thrust  through  the  scenery  close  to  me,  and  in  a  circular 
direction  cut  away  a  large  hole,  through  which  a  hand 
appeared,  and  before  any  one  could  prevent  it  a  number 
of  bottles  of  champagne  had  disappeared. 

I  read  afterwards  that  a  party  of  visitors  spied  some 
champagne  in  a  corner,  and  appropriated  the  lot  for 
their  table,  but  discovered  to  their  chagrin  when  they 
tried  to  open  them  that  they  were  "  property  bottles " 
made  and  painted  for  one  of  the  scenes  in  the  pantomime. 

The  mention  of  a  prince  recalls  to  my  mind  a  curious 
incident  I  came  across  in  an  old  book.  On  Twelfth 
Night,  1802,  a  real  prince,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards 
George  the  Fourth,  took  part  at  the  annual  cake-cutting 
introduced  by  Sheridan.  It  is  said  that  the  Prince 
"  delighted  everybody  with  his  affability,  his  gentlemanly 
manners,  and  his  witty  remarks."  Sheridan,  looking  at 
the  cake  and  noticing  a  large  crown  with  which  it  was 
surmounted,  playfully  said,  "  It  is  not  right  that  a  crown 
should  be  the  property  of  a  cake :  what  say  you,  George  ?  " 
The  Prince  merely  laughed  ;  and  Sheridan,  taking  up 
the  crown,  offered  it  to  him,  adding,  "  Will  you  deign  to 
accept  this  trifle  ?  "  "  Not  so,"  replied  His  Highness : 
"  however  it  may  be  doubted,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that 
I  prefer  the  cake  to  the  crown,  after  all."  "And  so, 
declining  the  crown,  he  partook  of  our  feast  with  hilarity 
and  condescension." 

The  last  Baddeley  Cake  celebration  I  attended  was 
about  as  unlike  the  previous  ones,  and  about  as  unlike 
anything  Baddeley  intended,  as  one  could  possibly  con- 
ceive. It  was  a  tremendous  banquet.  The  largest  set 
scene  of  the  pantomime  was  used  ;  tier  over  tier  of  tables 


SOME   NOTABLE  "FIRST  NIGHTS"        185 

rising  high  up  into  the  wings,  crowded  with  everybody 
who  was  anybody  in  society,  law,  art,  trade,  of  high  or 
low  degree.  Ladies  in  gorgeous  costumes,  gentlemen  in 
immaculate  evening  dress ;  a  splendid  band  discoursing 
sweet  music,  but,  alas !  one  could  not  find  the  Columbine 
or  the  Sprite,  the  Fairies,  or  the  other  "  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,"  who  were  in 
Baddeley's  will  "  requested  "  to  partake  of  £3  worth 
of  Twelfth  Cake  with  wine  and  punch  in  the  green  room 
of  the  theatre. 

Shade  of  Baddeley !  Sir  Augustus  Harris  uncon- 
sciously recalls  your  impersonations  on  that  historic  stage, 
as  he  bids  this  tremendous  living  advertisement  for 
himself,  using  your  name  merely  as  an  excuse,  to  partake 
of  a  supper  that  even  you,  Baddeley,  would  have  failed 
to  understand,  when  you  wielded  your  chef's  ladle,  or 
later  the  theatrical  sword.  In  place  of  your  cake, 
Mayonnaise  de  Homard,  Petits  Pates  des  Huitres, 
Cotelettes  de  Homard  a  la  Cardinal,  Aspics  de  Crevettes, 
Croquettes  de  Volaille  et  Langue,  Petites  Bouches  a  la 
Monglas,  Mauviettes  en  Casses  aux  fines  Herbes,  Aspics 
de  fois  Gras,  Petits  Pates  de  Ris  de  Veau,  Rissoles  de 
Gibier  a  la  Lyon,  Aspics  de  Poulet  aux  Truffe,  Anchois 
Sandwiches,  Jambon  Sandwiches,  Faisan  Sandwiches, 
Charlotte  a  la  Parisienne,  Gelee  Macedoine  des  Fruits, 
Creme  de  Framboises,  Gelee  Pouche  a  la  Remain, 
Bavaroise  de  Vanille,  Patisserie  Franchise,  Chartreuse 
d' Apricot,  Gateau  de  Savoy  decore,  and  Meringues  a  la 
Chantilly.  Champagne  galore,  Han  et  Cie.,  Cuvee 
Reserve  1883. 

A  ball  followed,  a  motley  throng  of  peers  and  legislators, 
soldiers,  sailors,  lawyers,  authors,  artists,  critics,  journal- 
ists, bewitching  actresses,  and  ladies  of  Society  com- 


i86  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

bined  to  make  one  of  the  most  brilliant  spectacles  ever 
seen.  It  was  kept  up  till  the  early  morn,  hours  after 
those  "  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  " 
had  gone  to  sleep  in  their  humble  homes,  some  perhaps 
supperless,  after  a  thought  for  Baddeley  as  he  had  thought 
for  them.  Strange,  should  his  ghost  have  walked  that 
night,  to  find  his  name  on  every  invitation  card,  and  yet 
only  in  the  mind  of  one  or  two  in  that  pandemonium  of 
music,  feasting,  and  dance. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


SIR   HENRY    IRVING 

Irving  as  a  model — Art  and  the  drama — Don  Quixote — His  horse  and 
what  came  of  it — Dressing-bag  Thompson — Appreciation — Imita- 
tions of  Irving — A  practical  joker — Mr.  Gladstone  at  the  Lyceum — 
Buckstone 


OMETHING  of  an  apology  is, 
perhaps,  expected  from  me 
for  adding  my  little  stock  of 
reminiscences  of  our  greatest 
actor  to  the  huge  list  of 
those  already  published.  I 
think  I  may  say,  however, 
that  I  had  exceptional  oppor- 
tunities of  knowing  him.  I 
may  also  claim  that  I  give 
correct  version  of  the  stories 
connected  with  Irving,  which 
occasionally  crop  up  in  a 
more  or  less  garbled  form. 
He  and  I  were  very  old 
friends,  and  I  made  a  careful 
study  of  him  in  fifty  of 
his  best-known  characters, 
one  of  these  sketches  he  approved  of.  Let  me 
my  recollections  with  a  quotation  from  a  letter 
187 


Every 
begin 


i88  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

which  I  sent  to  'Ike  Daily  Telegraph,  apropos  of  the 
republic ation  in  that  journal,  two  days  after  living's 
death,  of  my  sketches  of  him  in  the  character  of  Robes- 
pierre : 

"  SIR, — The  republication  of  my  sketches  of  Irving  as 
Robespierre  recalls  to  mind  the  pleasant  circumstances 
under  which  I  carried  out  this  commission  for  you.  As 
you  state,  it  was  Sir  Henry's  special  desire  that  I  should 
make  the  drawings.  He  was  tired  rehearsing,  and  so  as 
not  to  add. to  his  fatigue  he  made  an  appointment  with 
me  to  sketch  him  when  in  his  rooms  in  Bond  Street, 
resting.  *  You  know  me  well  enough,  my  dear  Furniss, 
to  sketch  me  as  Robespierre  or  in  any  other  character  if 
you  see  the  costume.' 

"  I  was  rather  surprised  that,  so  far  as  I  have  seen, 
no  artist's  name  appears  in  all  the  appreciations  of  Irving 
published  since  his  death.  Yet  Irving,  to  my  mind,  was 
essentially  the  artist-actor.  A  deaf  man,  if  artistic, 
could  enjoy  and  understand  the  subtlety  of  Sir  Henry 
Irving's  wonderful  performances,  simply  through  watch- 
ing his  artistic  manner. 

"  In  1887,  when  I  removed  my  (  Artistic  Joke '  from 
the  Gainsborough  Gallery,  in  Bond  Street,  and  re-opened 
it  in  Manchester  shortly  afterwards,  I  found  that  Irving 
happened  to  be  playing  in  that  city  in  Faust.  The 
Manchester  Art  and  Literary  Club  gave  a  supper  in  his 
honour,  and,  hearing  that  I  was  in  the  city,  they  very 
kindly  invited  me.  To  my  surprise  and  embarrassment, 
I  found  myself  placed  at  the  table  at  the  left  of  the  chair- 
man, and  regarded  as  the  second  guest  of  the  evening. 

"  After  supper  Irving  delivered,  in  his  easy  manner, 
one  of  those  graceful  speeches  in  which  no  one  sur- 


SIR  HENRY  IRVING  189 

passed  him.  I  was  then  called  upon  to  follow  upon 
*  Art,'  and,  unprepared,  I  was  somewhat  at  a  loss  to 
connect  *  Art '  and  *  The  Drama.'  However,  I  advanced 
a  favourite  point  of  mine,  which  is  that  artists  derive 
much  benefit  from  the  theatre,  whither  they  go  to  learn. 
I  reminded  my  listeners  that  a  hundred  years  ago  Royal 
Academicians  used  to  meet  at  their  Royal  Academy, 
where  a  model  was  placed  in  front  of  them,  in  order  that 
they  might  discuss  the  different  attitudes  and  move- 
ments of  figures  and  their  drapery.  This  their  successors 
no  longer  meet  to  do,  and  I  pointed  out  that  among  the 
reasons  which  have  led  them  to  discontinue  the  practice 
was  the  fact  that  they  can  now  sit  in  the  stalls  of  the 
Lyceum  Theatre  and  get  a  lesson  in  motion,  attitude, 
and  the  movement  of  drapery,  from  such  a  master  of 
those  arts  as  Irving." 

In  fact,  no  actor  ever  came  nearer  to  the  combination 
of  the  artist  and  the  actor  than  Sir  Henry  Irving. 

It  struck  me  as  I  was  making  the  remarks  noted  above, 
that  Irving  was  probably  thinking  of  the  caricatures  I 
had  perpetrated  of  him.  But  although  there  is  no  deny- 
ing the  fact  that  he  was  very  sensitive  to  caricature,  he 
knew  that  I  was  a  genuine  admirer  of  his  genius,  and 
that,  in  common  with  all  artists,  I  knew  him  to  be  a  true 
artist  also,  and  his  poses  and  the  management  of  his 
hands  and  drapery  were  well  worth  studying  by  the 
brethren  of  the  pencil  and  the  brush. 

He  was  as  much  a  friend  to  the  workers  in  the  studio 
as  he  was  to  those  on  the  stage,  and  it  is  therefore  sad 
to  think  that  he  fared  so  badly  at  the  hands  of  the  artists 
— both  painters  and  sculptors.  The  late  Edwin  Long 
painted  a  very  poor  picture  of  Irving  as  Hamlet.  Millais' 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

portrait  exhibited  in  the  Academy,  and  since  then 
hanging  over  the  fireplace  in  the  strangers'  room  in  the 
Garrick  Club,  gives  one  no  idea  of  strength,  and  Irving 
had  a  strong  face.  And  as  he  frequently  sat  under  this 
portrait,  it  was  easy  to  contrast  the  original  with  the 
picture. 

A  caricaturist  is  one  who  emphasises  all  the  bad 
qualities  in  the  sitter  and  avoids  all  the  better  ones.  Is  it 
libellous  to  say  that  a  certain  R.A.'s  portraits  are  clever, 
simply  for  the  reason  that  he  is  most  uncompromising  ? 
He  paints  the  Jew  picture-dealer,  cunning,  leery ;  the 
turn  of  the  thumb,  the  whole  attitude  is  that  of  a  Jew 
in  burlesque.  Yet  who  can  say  it  is  not  true  to  life  ? 

The  wife  of  the  vulgar  business  profiteering  man,  as 
he  depicts  her,  with  diamonds  in  her  hair,  on  every 
finger,  round  each  wrist,  is  true  to  nature.  Yet  the 
nature  seems  more  vulgar  on  canvas  than  in  real  life. 
The  artist  who  can  paint  the  truth  and  "  show  up  "  his 
sitters,  as  caricatures  do,  is  daring  ;  but  he  is,  in  his  art, 
essentially  a  caricaturist.  Still,  when  he  paints  a  portrait 
of  a  great  artist,  and  not  merely  of  a  successful  man  or 
woman  in  trade,  he  ought  to  bring  out  the  best  points 
of  his  sitter.  His  portrait  of  Irving,  a  greater  artist 
himself  than  all  the  Academicians — English,  Dutch,  or 
Yankee — ought  to  have  been  the  tribute  of  one  artist 
to  another — such  a  portrait,  for  instance,  as  that  of  Mrs. 
Siddons  by  Reynolds.  But  what  was  that  portrait  ? 
The  head  of  a  drunken,  fifth-rate,  broken-down  mummer. 
I  caricatured  it  mercifully  in  Punch  as  our  own  Irving 
with  a  bad  cold  in  his  head.  Anyway,  it  was  certainly 
quite  unworthy  of  the  artist  painter  or  of  the  artist  actor. 
This  Irving  himself  felt,  and  felt  bitterly.  He  made  no 
secret  of  the  fate  of  this  portrait.  For  one  evening,  at 


SIR  HENRY  IRVING  191 

a  dinner  of  distinguished  people,  he  informed  the  guests 
what  had  befallen  it. 

Irving  had  a  clever  trick,  which  I  frequently  saw  him 
practise,  of  getting  the  "  ear  of  the  table."  Say  he  was  at 
one  end,  I  the  farthest  away.  He  would  wait  his  oppor- 
tunity, and  then  raising  his  voice  say,  "  Furniss,  I  was 

just  telling  my  friend  on  my  right  that "  ;  "  Furniss, 

I  was  just  saying  that "  and  so  on.  All  conversation 

stopped  ;  and  those  between  Irving  and  myself  were 
obliged  to  listen  ;  which  meant  that  the  whole  table 
was  attentive. 

On  the  occasion  in  question  he  said  :  "  I  was  reminded, 
by  seeing  Furniss  down  there,  of  a  curious  thing  "  (of 
course  he  was  not,  and  the  "  curious  thing  "  had  nothing 
to  do  with  me ;  but  he  had  the  ear  of  the  table). 

But  to  return  to  the  fate  of  the  portrait. 

"  I  have  been  asking  my  friend  next  to  me,"  he  said, 
indicating  the  President  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and 
addressing  the  company  in  general,  "  whether  any  man 
has  a  right  to  destroy  the  work  of  a  great  artist,  should 
that  artist  produce  a  portrait  which  may  be  regarded  as 
a  libel.  Some  of  you  have  seen  a  portrait  of  me  by 

X ,  who  I  believe  is  a  great  painter,  exhibited  in  the 

Academy  a  few  seasons  ago.  That  portrait  I  looked 
upon  with  indignation.  To-day — this  very  morning — 
in  the  process  of  packing  (I  am  leaving  my  old  rooms  off 
Bond  Street),  I  came  across  it.  I  called  in  my  old 
servant-man  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  it. 
Would  he  have  it  ?  No ;  he  declined.  So  I  took  a 
long  sharp  knife  and  I  cut  that  portrait  inter  long  strips, 
and  my  man  threw  them  into  the  fire.  Now,  was  I 
justified  in  that  act  ?  That  is  what  I  want  to  know." 

It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  this  clever  artist  did  not 


192  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

rise  to  the  occasion  and  hand  down  to  posterity  a  really 
fine  portrait  of  Irving.  This  unfortunate  one  was  only 
a  head.  He  could  have  painted  the  head  again,  and 
some  model  could  have  sat  for  the  figure.  Irving  knew 
all  about  such  studio  matters,  as  the  following  anecdote 
shows. 

It  so  happened  I  sat  at  supper  next  to  Irving  on  the 
night  of  the  greatest  prize-fight  of  our  time.  Strange  to 
say,  it  was  a  supper  at  the  Garrick  Club  given  by  an 
artist  to  those  who  supported  his  election  to  the  club. 
The  fight  I  had  been  to  was  that  famous  encounter  at 
the  National  Sporting  Club  between  Slavin  and  the 
black  pugilist,  Jackson.  Irving  was  deeply  interested  in 
my  account  of  the  fight  I  had  just  seen.  I  told  him  of  the 
fine  effort  of  the  defeated  but  plucky  white  man,  Slavin. 
As  an  artist  I  could  not  but  admire  the  grand  physique 
of  the  ebony-skinned  gladiator. 

"  Yes,"  said  Irving,  "  he  must  be  a  splendid  fellow. 
You  know,  we  actors  have  taken  credit  for  a  physique 
not  our  own — witness  the  pictures  of  the  last  generation 
and  those  before.  Then  the  actor  sat  only  for  the  head  ; 
a  prize-fighter  posed  for  the  figure,  and,  strange  to  say, 
the  favourite  model  of  the  last  generation  was  a  coloured 
fighter." 

With  the  exception  of  Hamlet,  no  part  has  ever  been 
the  making  of  an  actor.  An  actor  must  make  the  part. 
But  with  Hamlet  it  is  different.  No  one  who  can  act 
at  all  entirely  fails  as  Hamlet.  We  have  had  bad 
Hamlets  and  good  Hamlets :  but  no  actor  can  be  bad 
enough  to  utterly  destroy  the  play.  For  the  part  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark  is  infallible.  When  well  played 
it  has  been  the  making  of  the  actor,  and  none  has  it  ever 
ruined. 


IRVING   AS    HAMLET. 
193 


194  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

On  the  other  hand  we  can  never  say  of  any  actor  : 
"  Ah,  what  a  Hamlet  he  would  make !  The  part  was 
written  for  him,"  as  one  can  say  of  Romeo  and  Falstaff, 
and  of  dozens  of  other  characters.  There  is  always  a 
Romeo  to  be  selected  from  the  young  actors,  and  a 
Falstaff  among  our  older  friends.  Mark  Lemon  was  an 
instance  of  the  latter.  He  was  Falstaff  in  real  life ;  he 
had,  therefore,  only  to  walk  on  to  the  stage  and  speak 
his  lines.  Nevertheless,  he  was  by  no  means  a  success ; 
perhaps  not  any  more  successful  as  Falstaff  than  Sir 
Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  was  as  Hamlet.  Yet  if  a  man 
brought  up  in  a  public-house,  and  eventually  becoming 
an  associate  of  wits,  should  suggest  Falstaff,  surely, 
on  the  other  hand,  an  unlimitedly  resourceful  and 
surpassingly  weird  tragedian — a  consummate  comedian 
and  a  foreigner  to  boot — should  be  an  ideal  Hamlet. 
But  he  was  not.  He  looked  the  part  to  perfection; 
he  moved  in  the  part  faultlessly ;  but  the  performance 
can  never  be  recorded  among  his  successes.  The  same 
actor,  however,  made  an  ideal  Falstaff  ! 

No  one  would  ever  select  Sir  Henry  Irving  to  play 
Falstaff,  but  every  one  selected  him  to  play  Don 
Quixote.  The  part  was  written  for  him,  and  he  looked 
the  character  to  perfection.  But  one  great  difficulty 
that  presented  itself  was  the  finding  of  Don  Quixote's 
horse — sufficiently  quaint,  starved,  and  aged.  Irving 
had  not  himself  thought  much  about  it,  but  as  the 
time  for  the  production  drew  near  he  realised  with 
anxiety  that  he  had  to  appear  attired  in  armour,  astride 
his  charger.  He  consulted  his  trustworthy  lieutenant, 
Mr.  Bram  Stoker. 

"  Bram,  what  about  the  horse,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.     I  have  found  the  very  one  for 


SIR  HENRY  IRVING 


195 


you  in  a  field  between  Sunderland  and  South  Shields. 
It's  on  its  way." 

The  rehearsals  went  on.  Irving  bestrode  a  common 
or  prompter's  chair,  and  waved  his  umbrella  in  place  of 
his  spear. 

But  horse- 
riding  —  particu- 
larly in  front  of 
the  footlights — is 
a  feat  not  to  be 
performed  with- 
out practice. 

"  Bram,  where 
is  that  horse  ?  " 

"  I've  just  got 
a  telegram,  sir ; 
it  is  on  its  way ; 
it  will  be  at 
Euston  before  we 
reach  Act  II." 

No  horse  ar- 
rived. Irving 
was  getting  more 
and  more  un- 
easy. 

"  Bram,  where  JRVING  AS  DON  QUIXQTH 

is     that     horse  ? 
I     had     better     hire    one     somewhere    in    London." 

"  It's  coming.  Hire  one  in  London !  Why,  there  is 
not  one  in  the  whole  of  London  to  suit  the  part.  Wait 
till  you  see  this  one.  It  will  be  a  gigantic  success.  You 
can  count  its  ribs,  and  its  bones  stand  out  like  hat-pegs. 
It's  ewe-necked  and  has  a  head  like  a  camel." 


196  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

"  But  where  is  it  ?     I  must  see  it  to-day." 
Bram    rushed    from    the    stage,   and  nearly  upset  a 
messenger  rushing  on  with  a  telegram. 

The  telegram  ran  :  "  Horse  and  man  have  arrived  at 
Euston  and  started  for  theatre." 

Mr.  Bram  Stoker  handed  the  telegram  to  his  chief. 
Mr.  Loveday  called  out  Act  II ;  Sir  Henry  disappeared 
to  his  dressing-room  to  have  his  armour  put  on,  and 
before  all  this  was  completed  Mr.  Bram  Stoker  returned. 
He  rushed  on  to  the  stage  with  reddened  face  and  glisten- 
ing eye,  his  whole  appearance  denoting  tragic  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  Stoker,  where  is  that  horse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  all  up  with  it." 

"  What,  not  here  !     Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  arrived — it  left  Euston " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know.  I  saw  the  telegram.  But  where 
is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  man  and  the  beast  got  as  far  as  Bow  Street, 
then  the  police  stopped  them.  The  horse  was  ordered 
to  be  shot,  and  the  man  has  been  sentenced  to  a  month's 
hard  labour  for  cruelty  to  animals !  " 

The  painstaking  Mr.  Stoker's  trouble  was  therefore 
lost,  and  stage  realism  suffered  a  blow.  The  substitute 
was  a  cab-horse,  which,  strange  to  relate,  had  to  be  made 
up  for  every  performance  to  look  a  "  bag  of  bones  "  : 
ribs  painted  and  hollow  flanks  artistically  suggested. 

Irving  had  as  Sancho  Panza  Sam  Johnson,  a  right  good 
actor.  I  shall  never  forget  that  comedian's  trouble  in 
managing  his  mule  at  rehearsal. 

I  recollect  that  excellent  actor  well.  As  I  have  said 
in  an  earlier  chapter  I  first  saw  him  in  pantomime,  when 
I  was  a  little  boy  in  knickerbockers ;  perhaps  my  first — 


SIR   HENRY  IRVING  197 

and  therefore  happiest — pantomime.  In  that  produc- 
tion, Aladdin,  Sam  Johnson  had  to  manage  a  mule  or  a 
donkey.  But  the  donkey  in  that  case  was  from  the 
ordinary  pantomime  paddock,  and  consisted  of  two 
acrobats  with  a  donkey  skin  over  them.  Mr.  Johnson 
did  not,  I  remember  even  now,  seem  a  bit  more  at  home 
on  the  pantomime  mule  than  he  did,  later  in  his  career, 
on  the  real  one.  In  the  meantime  he  had  played  many 
parts,  from  the  First  Gravedigger  in  Hamlet  to  the 
part  of  Stryver  in  the  adaptation  of  Charles  Dickens's 
"Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  entitled  The  Only  Way. 

The  little  incident  related  above  recalls  another  that 
happened  a  few  years  afterwards,  when  Irving  produced 
Sardou's  Robespierre.  It  was  then  necessary  to  have  a 
horse  to  pull  on  a  cart  crowded  with  country  folk,  in 
the  beautiful  rustic  scene  with  which  the  play  opens. 

This  time  Irving  did  not  trust  to  wasters  from  the 
north,  or  risks  with  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Animals.  He  discovered  that  the  white 
horse  ridden  by  another  celebrated  actor  in  a  popular 
play  which  had  just  completed  its  run  was,  in  technical 
phraseology,  "  resting  "  ;  so  it  was  brought  on  to  the 
stage  of  the  Lyceum  at  rehearsal  for  Irving's  inspection. 
The  following  conversation  took  place  between  Sir 
Henry  and  the  man  with  the  horse  : 

"  My  good  man,  is  this  horse  docile  ?  " 
"  Lor'  bless  you,  Sir  'Enry,  it's  as  quiet  as  a  lamb." 
"  And  accustomed,  I  hear,  to  the  stage,  eh  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir  ;  it's  the  very  'orse  as  'as  been  such  a  success 
in  Mr.  Tree's  great  production  at  his  grand  theatre." 

"  Ah,  quite  so,  quite  so.  Mr.  Tree  found  it  a  good 
actor,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  he  did.     Why,  when  Mr.  Tree  was 


198  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

haranguing  the  audience,  why  this  'ere  'orse  yawned,  it 
did." 

"  Ah,  I  see,  it's  a  good  critic  too." 

Sir  Henry  never  forgot  an  old  friend ;  and  many  and 
many  a  kindly  act  of  princely  generosity  is  known. 

Shortly  after  Irving  went  into  management  at  the 
Lyceum,  he  was  walking  down  the  Strand,  when  he  was 
accosted  by  an  out-at-elbow,  broken-down  tragedian  : 

"  What  ?  Harry,  my  hearty !  How  is  my  old  pal 
Harry  ?  Why,  the  boys  tells  me,  Irving,  that  you  are 
now  an  actor-manager — running  the  Lyceum.  Who 
ever  would  have  thought  of  this,  in  the  old  stock  days  at 
Edinburgh  and  Liverpool,  eh  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  quite  so — quite  so,"  said  Irving, 
shaking  the  stranger  by  the  hand.  "But  you  have  the 
advantage  of  me.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Who  am  I  ?  Why,  Roscius  Shakespeare  Thompson  ; 
you  remember  R.  S.  Thompson — Rocy,  your  old  pal." 

"  Ah,  of  course ;  now  I  do  recall  you,  Thompson. 
You  are  Dressing-bag  Thompson,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  am  ;  *  Dressing-bag  Thompson.' 
Fancy,  Harry,  your  remembering  that  after  all  these 
years !  " 

Years  before  Thompson  had  received — from  a  rich 
old  lady  admirer — an  inveterate  theatre  goer — a  mag- 
nificently equipped  dressing-bag,  which  the  impecunious 
Bohemian  never  failed  to  carry  about  with  him  when  he 
was  on  tour. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Thompson  ?  " 

"  Walking  gent ;  examiner  of  public  buildings ;  any- 
thing you  like  but  acting.  Ah,  Harry,  the  profession 
isn't  what  it  was  in  the  palmy  days'  of  stock  companies. 
They're  all  burst  now,  and  shop-boys  become  "  actors," 


SIR  HENRY   IRVING  199 

and  tour  in  pieces  written  by  clerks,  and  run  by  American 
Jew  company  -  promoters.  The  *  legitimate,' '  said 
Thompson,  thumping  himself  on  the  chest,  "  are  no 
longer  appreciated.  By  the  way,  Harry,  what  can  you 
do  for  one  of  the  right  sort  ?  " 

"  Come  round  to  the  Lyceum ;  we'll  consult  Bram 
Stoker.  .  .  .  Here,  Stoker,  allow  me  to  introduce  Mr. 
Thompson — *  Dressing-Bag  Thompson.'  Is  our  com- 
pany full  ?  We'll  put  him  on  the  list  and  chance  a 
suitable  part  turning  up."  Then,  turning  to  Thompson, 
he  said : 

"  What  about  salary,  eh  ?    Twelve  pounds  a  week,  eh  ?  " 

"  From  you,  Harry,  as  an  old  pal,  I  will  accept  that 
retainer.  I  like  to  help  an  old  friend  ;  so  consider  my 
services  are  yours  at  the  honorarium  mentioned." 

"  That's  all  right,  Thompson  ;  you  will  be  paid  weekly 
and  advised  when  the  next  play  is  to  be  read.  Good-bye, 
Thompson.  How  is  your  mother  ?  All  right,  eh  ?  Of 
course  !  Bram,  just  pay  Mr.  Thompson  his  first  week's 
salary  in  advance." 

The  next  play  was  read  in  due  course.  "  Dressing-bag 
Thompson  "  sat  with  the  rest  of  the  company  while  the 
characters  were  distributed,  but  no  part  fell  to  him. 

"  Henry,  Henry,  where  is  my  part  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Eh  ?  Ah,  yes,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Irving,  walking 
up  to  him.  "  The  play,  you  see,  is  by  a  modern  author, 
one  of  those  fellows  who  don't  appreciate  legitimate 
actors.  Better  luck  next  time  !  You  get  your  twelve 
pounds  a  week,  I  hope  ?  How  is  your  mother  ?  Good- 
bye, old  chap." 

Again  the  time  came  round  for  another  reading — this 
time  a  revival  of  Shakespeare.  Thompson  rose  and  asked 
once  more  where  his  part  was.  Irving  approached  him 


200  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

kindly,  but  "  Dressing-bag  Thompson "  greeted  him 
with  :  "  No,  no,  Harry ;  no  excuse  this  time,  old  chap. 
The  immortal  bard  is  no  new  author,  he's  legitimate. 
Where  is  my  part  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Irving,  putting  his  arm 
into  Thompson's  and  drawing  him  to  one  side.  "  You 
get  your  salary,  eh — twelve  pounds  a  week  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  where's  my  part  ?  This  is  not  a 
modern  author." 

"  No,  no  ;  of  course.  But,  *  Dressing-bag  Thompson,' 
you  know  we're  obliged  to  respect  the  dead." 

I  was  once  sketching  Irving  in  a  new  piece  at  a  dress 
rehearsal  for  one  of  the  illustrated  papers.  At  the  same 
time  an  artist  hailing  from  the  Emerald  Isle,  with  the 
strongest  brogue  I  ever  heard,  appealed  to  me  as  a  friend 
of  Irving  to  allow  him  to  see  that  actor  in  his  dressing- 
room  for  the  purpose  of  getting  more  detail  of  the  costume. 
This  Irving  kindly  assented  to  ;  and  after  some  time  the 
Irish  artist  returned  full  of  admiration. 

"  Begorrah,  sorr,  Irving's  a  wonderful  man  intoirly. 
Oi  hadn't  bin  spakin'  foive  minuets  whin  he  axes  me, 
1  Whin,  thin,  did  you  lave  Oireland  ?  '  Begorrah,  he's 
a  wonderful  insoight  into  cha-rac-tei  to  till  Oi  was  Oirish 
afther  only  foive  minuets'  talk  !  " 

Irving  appreciated  any  little  attention  or  compliment. 
I  came  across  a  letter  from  him  acknowledging  one  of 
my  books,  which  is  reproduced  on  the  opposite  page. 

I  have  drawn  more  caricatures  of  Irving  and  have 
given  more  imitations,  but,  being  as  unlike  the  actor  as 
any  man  could  be,  I  had  to  depend  on  voice  alone.  So 
much  so  that,  once  at  a  garden-party  at  a  house  in  the 
country,  a  young  lady — afterwards  famous  as  a  singer — 
gave  an  imitation  of  Miss  Ellen  Terry  as  Juliet  in  the 


LYCEUM  THEATRE. 


/£.  /? 


^^^ 


201 


202  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

balcony  scene ;  I  was  Irving  as  Romeo,  but  wisely  hid 
myself  in  a  laurel  bush  so  as  not  to  destroy  the  illusion. 

One  of  living's  company  at  the  Lyceum,  of  the  name 
of  Lewis,  in  years  gone  by,  gave  a  marvellous  and  original 
imitation  of  Irving  playing  a  game  of  billiards.  The 
idea  was  as  simple  as  it  was  ingenious,  and  had  one 
merit  over  other  "  sketches  "  of  Irving — it  might  have 
happened.  Of  course  it  never  did,  but  it  was  possible. 
Irving  is  asked  by  a  stranger  to  play  a  game — a  hundred 
up. 

"  Eh  ?  Yes,  yes.  I  don't  mind.  Play  even,  eh  ? 
No  points — ah  !  " 

The  "  business "  was  then  simple  and  delightfully 
comic,  Irving  taking  off  his  coat  as  if  he  were  removing  a 
coat-of-mail,  which  he  hangs  up  on  a  peg  with  the  manner 
of  hanging  it  up  on  a  castle  wall.  Then  follows  the 
selection  of  the  cue,  as  if  choosing  a  double-handed  sword 
for  a  combat  with  Macduff.  "  Ah  !  too  heavy.  Eh  ! 
too-o-o  light.  Eh  !  ah  !  too-o-o  long  "  ;  and  so  on. 
The  cue  selected,  then  the  business  with  the  "  chalk  " 
(chalking  the  cue)  gave  scope  to  the  mannerisms  familiar 
to  all  imitations. 

"  Shall  I  break,  eh  ?  Ha,  ha  !  "  Then  came  the  stab 
at  the  ball,  the  anxious  watching  of  its  progress  up  the 
table,  the  despair  at  missing  the  spot-ball. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  That's  one  to  you."  And  Irving  marks. 
And  to  the  end  he  does  nothing  else,  for  his  opponent 
makes  his  hundred  in  one  break.  The  whole  "  business  " 
is  Irving's  increasing  tragic  despair,  until  at  the  end  he 
throws  up  his  arms  and  cries,  "  Heavens !  And  I  have 
not  had  one  stroke  at  all !  " 

Irving  was  a  born  practical  joker  and  enjoyed  fun. 
He  was  always  at  his  best  after  supper,  enjoying  a  good 


IRVING   IN    "  THE   CORSICAN   BROTHERS." 
303 


304  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

long  and  strong  cigar.  His  great  friend  Toole  did  not 
smoke.  Every  one  who  saw  Toole  in  Walker,  London 
(and  who  did  not  ?)  may  not  be  aware  of  the  sacrifice 
which  that  conscientious  comedian  made  at  every  per- 
formance in  the  interests  of  art.  He  actually  smoked 
a  cigarette,  whilst  nicotine  in  any  form  was  obnoxious 
to  him.  However,  to  ease  the  minds  of  his  friends,  who 
I  am  sure  could  not  have  enjoyed  this  most  popular 
actor's  performance  had  they  known  he  was  suffering 
for  their  pleasure,  I  had  better  say  that  the  cigarettes 
were  specially  made,  and  Toole  puffed  the  innocent 
flower  of  camomile.  Mentioning  Toole  and  his  cigarette 
reminds  me  of  his  great  friend  Irving  and  the  cigarette 
which  the  latter  smoked  in  the  first  act  of  The  Corsican 
Brothers.  Every  cigarette-smoker  envied  the  way  in 
which  (apparently)  Irving  rolled  that  cigarette.  He 
placed  the  paper  in  the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  threw  some 
tobacco  into  it,  and  instantly,  with  one  quick  move- 
ment, the  cigarette  was  perfect  and  between  his  teeth. 
It  was  pure  sleight-of-hand — what  is  known  to  conjurers 
as  "  palming  "  a  ready-made  cigarette  which  was  sub- 
stituted for  the  paper  and  tobacco. 

Irving  was  very  liberal  in  his  invitations  to  "  go  be- 
hind." Few  are  aware  that  Mr.  Gladstone  once  appeared 
on  the  Lyceum  stage.  It  happened  thus :  It  is  well 
known  that  the  Premier  and  Sir  Henry  Irving  had  a  great 
admiration  for  each  other,  and  when  Mr.  Gladstone 
attended  the  theatre  he  always  went  round  to  Sir  Henry's 
room  to  have  a  chat.  He  took  quite  as  much  interest 
in  the  mechanism  of  the  arrangements  as  he  did  in  the 
intricacies  of  the  Home  Rule  Bill.  One  night,  when 
The  Corsican  Brothers  was  on  the  Lyceum  stage,  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  missed  from  his  box.  He  was  behind 


SIR  HENRY   IRVING 


205 


the  scenes,  having  everything  explained  to  him  by  Mr. 
Loveday.  The  music  stopped,  the  players  were  in  their 
places,  and  the  curtain  was  about  to  be  rung  up,  but  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  stage 
holding  an  argument  with  his  guide  about  some  detail, 
or  recounting  to  him  some  theatrical  reminiscence  of 


MR.    GLADSTONE   AS   A   SUPER. 


days  gone  by.  Mr.  Gladstone  wanted  to  see  the  scene 
through,  and  had  no  inclination  to  return  to  his  own  box. 
It  was  the  bal  masque  scene,  in  which  boxes  are  arranged 
round  the  stage  with  people  in  them.  Into  one  of  these 
Mr.  Gladstone  was  hurried ;  and  although  the  audience 
saw  that  he  was  not  in  his  former  seat,  few,  if  any,  noticed 
him  upon  the  stage.  So  he  in  his  time  played  many  parts, 
even  to  that  of  super  at  the  Lyceum. 


ao6  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

According  to  Colour- Sergeant  Barry,  who  had  for 
twenty-seven  years  been  door-keeper  at  the  Lyceum  in 
Irving's  time,  Mr.  Gladstone,  when  he  visited  the  theatre, 
occupied  a  little  wooden  seat  which  had  been  let  into  the 
proscenium  wall,  whence  he  had  obtained  an  excellent 
view  of  the  stage  without  himself  being  seen  by  the 
audience. 

I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  analyse  the  mind  that 
invents  and  circulates  lies  about  public  men.  Malicious 
inventions  may  be  not  uncommon  among  'Arrys  and 
bounders,  but  that  the  educated  man  of  the  world  should 
deliberately  lie  passes  all  understanding. 

I  was  entertained  at  dinner  in  a  large  provincial  town 
by  its  leading  and  most  important  citizen — and  man  of 
the  world,  and  a  really  good  fellow  at  heart.  The 
conversation,  of  course,  drifted  into  the  most  general 
of  all  social  topics  of  the  last  ten  years — the  stage,  when 
to  my  utter  astonishment  our  host  seriously  informed 
myself  and  his  friends  that  he  considered  mummer- 
worship  overdone,  and  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  our 
actors  and  actresses  were  an  overrated,  self-advertised 
lot,  and  illustrated  this  wild  assertion  by  a  scene  he  had 
himself,  he  said,  witnessed  in  London.  He  assured  us 
that  Sir  Henry  Irving  was  in  the  habit  of  driving  every 
morning  to  the  front  entrance  of  the  Lyceum  Theatre 
and,  remaining  in  his  well-appointed  cab,  of  calling 
loudly  for  his  letters,  which  were  brought  to  him,  there 
to  be  opened  and  read  in  public.  Sir  Henry  amused 
himself  by  throwing  the  envelopes  into  the  gutter,  to 
be  fought  for  and  picked  up  by  his  worshippers  and 
street  boys,  who  were  daily  attracted  to  the  spot  by 
this  familiar  scene  of  London  life,  which  my  host 
declared  he  had  himself  witnessed.  This,  of  Sir 


SIR  HENRY  IRVING  207 

Henry  Irving,  the  greatest  and  most  modest  of  all  his 
profession  ! 

The  other  and  true  side  of  the  picture  could  at  that 
time  have  been  seen  at  the  other  side  of  the  building.  A 
cab  draws  up,  out  of  which  steps  the  well-known  figure 
of  Sir  Henry,  clothed  in  the  most  ordinary  attire.  He 
wears  a  low-crowned  hat,  rather  in  want  of  a  brush ;  his 
private  key  opens  a  little  private  door,  situated  in  a  street 
deserted  and  practically  private,  into  his  private  room ; 
he  finds  his  private  secretary  awaiting  him  to  open  his 
private  letters.  And  should  my  informant  of  the  front- 
door incident  happen  to  call,  I  doubt  if  he  would  be 
granted  a  peep  into  the  privacy  of  Sir  Henry's  sanctum. 

Now,  a  perfectly  true  story  of  an  actor-manager  in 
front  of  his  theatre  happened  in  the  old  days  of  the 
Haymarket.  Buckstone,  passing  under  the  portico  in 
front  of  the  house  late  one  night,  after  the  theatre 
had  been  closed,  observed  an  intoxicated  man  vainly 
endeavouring  to  light  a  match,  or  rather  several  matches, 
on  one  of  the  pillars.  It  so  happened  Buckstone  had 
just  gone  to  the  expense  of  having  the  front  of  the 
theatre  painted ;  he  could  not  restrain  remonstrating 
with  the  destructive  inebriate. 

"  My  good  man,  why  do  that  ?  I  have  just  had  those 
pillars  repainted,  and  I  really  cannot  allow  my  property 
to  be  utilised  for  striking  matches." 

With  that  hopelessly  contemptuous  look  peculiar  to 
gentlemen  in  an  intoxicated  condition,  the  stranger 
deliberately  replied  :  "  Oo  are  you  ?  What  d'ye  mean  ? 
Go  away.  I — I  tell  you  what  y'are — you're  an  infernally 
bad  imitation  of  that  old  fool  B-B-Buckstone !  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

SIR   HERBERT   BEERBOHM    TREE'S    HUMOUR 

Tree  and  Irving — Henry  VIII  surprises  Wolsey — Tree  and  his  taxi — 
He  offers  me  an  engagement — His  bans  mots — The  Ambassador 
from  Java — Tree  and  the  critic — Tree  and  Sir  Hall  Caine 

CHRONICLING  Tree's  rise  to  fame  in  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession, it  was  remarked  in  a  memoir  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  "  Tree  had  paid  the  full  and  flattering  penalty  of 
genius.  He  had  come  to  be  included  in  the  list  of 
*  popular  actors/  whom  spry  young  gentlemen  imitated 
at  smoking  concerts ;  "  but  the  writer  failed  to  state  that 
it  was  as  one  of  these  "  spry  young  gentlemen,"  imitating 
popular  actors  at  smoking  concerts  and  Bohemian  clubs, 
that  Tree  first  became  known,  before  he  adopted  the 
stage  as  a  profession.  He  was  a  brilliant,  spry  young 
amateur,  and,  as  I  have  before  stated,  very  popular  at 
"  Studios  Smokes,"  which  flourished  in  those  days. 

At  one  of  these  Irving  appeared  just  as  Tree  was  called 
upon  for  his  famous  imitations.  Strange  to  say  he  was 
excellent  as  Toole  and  Wyndham,  James  and  Thome,  and 
all  contemporary  celebrities  but  Irving — his  Irving  was 
not  a  success,  and  in  the  presence  of  the  original  his 
imitation  was  even  worse.  Before  giving  it  he  asked 
Irving  if  he  objected.  "  Certainly  not,  go  ahead,"  was 

the  reply. 

208 


SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE'S  HUMOUR    209 

Tree  gave  his  imitation  of  Irving  first,  and  when  he 
had  finished  his  "  turn  "  he  approached  Irving — who 
remarked,  "  Cap — i — tal !  Cap — i — tal !  I  like  the  first 
one  best,  eh  ? — when  you  were  yourself." 

The  same  writer  is,  I  think,  wrong  in  attributing  the 
success  of  Trilby  to  the  interest  in  the  published  story. 
In  America  it  certainly  was  so — it  is  a  country  of  readers 
— but  in  England  Trilby  as  a  book  lay  on  the  bookstalls 
till  Tree  made  it  popular  on  the  stage,  and  then  it  sold 
out  rapidly.  Tree's  Svengali  was  a  great  performance — 
all  the  actor's  little  mannerisms,  as  well  as  his  figure  and 
voice,  suited  the  part.  The  American  who  originated 
the  part  was  too  stout  for  it — but  he  originated  the  famous 
death  scene,  where  Svengali  falls  backwards  over  the 
table.  It  was  seldom  Tree  borrowed  any  "  business " 
from  another  actor — I  know  of  this  one  case.  Tree  went 
straight  to  nature ;  he  was  very  observant.  I  have  been 
with  him  when  he  has  shadowed  a  peculiar  man  in  the 
street,  and  studied  his  gait  and  habits. 

In  the  play  of  Henry  Fill.  Bourchier  made  quite  a  hit 
by  a  peculiarly  neat  rebuff  of  Wolsey.  He  reclined  at 
one  end  of  a  long  seat,  and  Wolsey,  to  show  his  equality, 
prepared  to  seat  himself  at  the  other  end  of  the  same 
couch,  but  Henry  quickly  threw  his  leg  along  the  cushion 
and  baulked  the  intention.  The  "  bit  of  business  "  was 
Mr.  Bourchier's  own,  and  without  saying  a  word  to 
Tree,  he  introduced  it  at  rehearsal.  Tree  was  delighted — 
but  challenged  Bourchier  as  to  its  kingliness,  as  soon  as 
the  laughter  of  the  others  who  were  present  had  sub- 
sided. Bourchier  informed  Tree  that  he  had  seen  King 

Edward  do  that  to  Lord the  other  evening,  and 

he  had  "  booked  it." 

Tree  was  very  susceptible  to  the  admiration  of  the 

'4 


210  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

public,  and  he  showed  this  in  a  peculiar  manner — very- 
different  from  Irving.  Tree  was  always  ready  to  play 
his  part  on  the  stage  and  off ;  Irving,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  not  care  a  jot  once  he  left  the  boards,  and  generally 
arrived  at  his  stage  door  up  a  back  street  off  the  Strand, 
in  an  old  suit,  an  overcoat  that  required  brushing,  and  a 
shabby  square  felt  hat.  Tree,  on  the  other  hand,  left 
his  stage  door  in  the  bustling  Haymarket  amid  the 
crowds  collected  on  the  pathway  waiting  for  the  doors 
to  open. 

One  day  I  called  on  Tree  at  midday ;  if  I  remember 
rightly  during  the  season  before  the  war.  A  long  line  of 
old  ladies,  and  young  ones  too,  were  already  assembled. 
After  our  chat  in  his  palatial  reception  room  at  the  top 
of  the  building  we  departed  to  our  club  for  lunch.  The 
door-keeper  of  His  Majesty's  asked  Sir  Herbert  if  he 
required  a  taxi.  "  Yes,"  replied  the  well-groomed  actor, 
"  but  I  prefer  to  select  my  own."  Then  he  posed ;  in 
place  of  taking  the  stage,  he  took  the  footpath.  His 
manner  was  superb  ;  he  frowned  at  one  taxi,  shuddered 
at  another,  beckoned  to  the  third — it  was  all  excellent 
acting,  and  it  found  its  mark,  for  his  admirers  were  hyp- 
notically drawn  from  the  outer  wall  of  the  building. 
The  temptation  was  too  great ;  I  could  not  resist  it. 
When  Tree's  back  was  turned  I  took  off  my  hat,  and, 
holding  it  out,  walked  along  the  line  of  spectators : 
"  Thank  you,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  first  performance — 
thank  you." 

Not  long  after  this  we  were  jointly  made  a  public 
show.  Tree  came  down  to  unveil  a  tablet  erected  to 
the  memory  of  the  great  actor  Kean,  in  the  sea-coast 
town  in  which  I  live.  Kean,  by  the  way,  is  said  to  have 
appeared  at  a  fit-up  theatre  in  the  vicinity  on  behalf  of 


SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE'S  HUMOUR    211 

some  travelling  strollers  who  were  stranded  and  penniless. 
Tree  was  entertained  on  his  arrival  by  the  Mayor,  and 
I,  as  the  chairman  of  the  unveiling  ceremony,  shared  the 
same  open  carriage  with  Tree. 

"  Furniss,  what  is  this  all  about  ?  Give  me  a  point  or 
two."  I  gave  him  all  I  knew — "  Thanks,  many  thanks, 
don't  use  that  yourself — you  have  saved  the  situation." 

The  ceremony  took  place  on  the  highway  at  a  cross 
road,  the  junction  of  two  tramway  lines.  An  impromptu 


"THANK  vou,  LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN.    FIRST  PERFORMANCE — 

THANK   YOU." 

platform  had  been  erected,  on  which  were  seated  Lord 
Brassey,  Coulson  Kernahan,  and  other  celebrities,  local 
and  otherwise.  As  an  old  platform  speaker  I  "  let  them 
have  it."  I  am  endowed  with  what  is  called  a  "  powerful 
organ."  The  traffic  went  on,  and  so  did  I,  and  I  drowned 
the  traffic.  Tree,  in  his  reply,  complimented  me  on  my 
vocal  effort,  and  said  that  he  was  then  and  there  prepared 
to  offer  me  an  engagement.  In  closing  the  proceedings, 
I  informed  the  crowd  that  I  had  actually  been  offered  an 
engagement  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre — I  was  offered  a 
post  outside  the  theatre  to  call  the  cabs  and  carriages ! 


ai2  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Sir  Herbert  was  as  great  a  wit  as  he  was  an  actor  and 
manager.  I  must  record  some  of  his  bons  mots  I  myself 
have  heard  him  say,  and  one  is  that  Sir  Herbert  disliked 
flattery,  and  he  has  said  so  in  these  words  :  "  Flattery 
makes  the  great  little,  the  little  never  great." 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  numbering  Sir  Herbert  Tree  as 
one  of  my  friends  some  time  before  he  adopted  the  stage 
as  his  profession.  In  his  early  days,  as  I  have  said  before, 
he  was  much  sought  after  as  an  amateur  in  London 
Society,  and  in  those  days  gave  very  clever  imitations  of 
the  leading  actors.  I  have  never  seen  any  burlesques 
or  parodies  to  equal  young  Tree's  efforts.  The  cleverer 
they  were,  the  nearer  the  original,  the  more  they  were 
appreciated  by  all  but  those  burlesqued.  Now  the 
biter  is  frequently  bit  in  real  earnest,  but  Sir  Herbert's 
shoulders  are  wide — wider  than  the  late  Sir  Henry 
Irving's,  who  could  not  tolerate  any  one  making  fun  at 
his  expense.  Sir  Herbert  Tree,  apropos  of  his  two  funny 
imitators,  made  one  of  his  best  bons  mots  :  "  A  man  never 
knows  what  a  damn  fool  he  is  until  he  sees  himself  imitated 
by  one." 

It  is  generally  when  men  rise  above  Bohemianism  their 
skins  become  thinner.  There  is  no  doubt  Tree  stood 
at  the  top  of  his  profession — the  Irving  mantle  of 
management  fell  upon  his  shoulders,  but  it  covered  a 
thick  skin  and  a  heart  that  was  true  to  Bohemianism. 
He  was,  in  fact,  of  all  my  clever  friends,  the  least  altered 
by  success.  I  once  heard  him  make  a  remark  which 
sums  up  this  peculiarity  :  "  The  greatest  luxury  of  life 
is  to  be  yourself  and  nothing  else." 

Of  Bohemianism  he  said  :  "  I  drink  to  Vagabondage, 
the  only  bondage  of  the  free." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  are  still  some  narrow- 


SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE'S  HUMOUR    213 

minded  persons  who  look  upon  the  theatre  as  a  sink  of 
iniquity,  and  actors  and  actresses  with  abhorrence.  It 
is  a  prejudice  that  is  dying  hard.  Some  years  ago  strait- 
laced  folk  in  every  sphere  of  life  would  prefer  death  to 
contamination  with  "  play  actors."  One  evening  Tree  was 
invited  to  dine  with  a  very  distinguished  man.  As  soon 
as  Sir  Herbert  entered  the  house,  his  host  dragged  him  on 
one  side  and  said,  "  For  goodness  sake  don't  let  any  one 
know  you  are  an  actor.  My  wife  will  not  allow  a  member 
of  your  profession  into  the  house — you  must  pretend  to 
be  something  else — anything  will  do,  but  not  an  actor." 

Sir  Herbert  smilingly  acquiesced,  but  was  somewhat 
nonplussed  when  introduced  as  "  A  distinguished  am- 
bassador from  Java."  He  knew  nothing  of  Java,  not 
even  where  it  could  be  found  on  the  map. 

Among  the  other  guests  at  dinner  was  a  friend  who, 
being  in  the  secret,  fiendishly  enjoyed  "  drawing  "  the 
"  Ambassador,"  who  parried  his  wit  with  gravity  if  with 
difficulty,  for  he  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  the  country 
he  was  supposed  to  represent.  Unfortunately  his  vis-a-vis 
— a  stern  lady  of  commanding  presence — did,  and  sud- 
denly in  all  sincerity  put  the  following  question  to  the 
"  Ambassador  " : 

"  I  am  most  interested  in  the  country  you  have  just 
come  from.  Can  you  tell  me  how  is  the  nutmeg  trade  ?  " 

This  was  a  critical  moment — every  one  at  the  table 
waited  for  the  reply.  It  came  glibly  : 

"  Madam,"  said  Sir  Herbert,  with  an  air  of  authority, 
"  I  am  pleased  to  say  it  has  lately  received  an  impetus 
from  the  importation  of  nutmeg  graters  from  the 
United  States." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  so — but  ah  !  pray,  sir,  how  does 
that  affect  it  ?  " 


214  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

"  Madam,  pardon  me,  that  is  a  secret  of  the  nutmeg 
trade  !  " 

Sir  Herbert  frequently  puts  in  his  own  little  tit-bits 
in  plays  he  acts  in.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  one  is — "  All 
men  are  equal  except  myself — Nero." 

In  a  dramatic  scene  he  brought  in  the  following  pen- 
picture  :  "  I  never  saw  such  tempestuous  passion,  like 
a  mad  passion  of  sea,  drowning  drowned  mermaids  on  a 
shrieking  shore." 

Sometimes  Sir  Herbert's  witticisms  were  whispered 
into  the  ears  of  the  great.  Speaking  of  suffragettes  to 
an  ex-Premier,  he  remarked,  apropos  of  the  attitude 
these  fanatical  ladies  adopt,  "  You  cannot  knock  off  a 
man's  hat,  and  then  expect  him  to  take  it  off." 

Another  blossom  of  wit  from  the  Tree  :  "  It  is  better 
to  like  a  little  too  much  than  much  too  little." 

Sir  Herbert's  satire  was  truly  delightful.  A  friend  of 
his,  in  whose  geniality  he  detected  a  touch  of  east  wind, 
asked  him  how  it  was  that  Sir  Herbert,  buffeted  by  fate, 
was  able  to  turn  a  smiling  countenance  to  the  world. 
"  Ah !  "  replied  Sir  Herbert,  "  I'll  tell  you,  my  dear 
fellow,  the  secret  of  my  philosophy.  Like  the  ostrich, 
I  hide  my  head  in  the  sand,  and  that  attitude  enables  me 
to  turn  a  smiling  back  to  my  enemies." 

In  presenting  his  portrait  to  a  critic,  he  wrote  in  the 
margin  :  "  To  the  worst  of  critics  and  the  best  of  friends." 
His  friend,  the  critic,  was  rather  surprised  with  this 
curious  inscription,  and  asked  Sir  Herbert  for  a  little 
explanation.  Tree  quickly  replied,  "  When  you  put 
more  butter  into  your  criticisms,  I'll  say  you  are  the  best 
of  critics — and  the  worst  of  friends." 

There  is  a  story  Tree  told  me — in  the  following  way. 
I  believe  my  readers  may  have  seen  it  before,  but  I  should 


SIR  HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE'S  HUMOUR    215 

like  to  tell  it  my  way — as  Sir  Herbert  has  related  it  in  my 
presence. 

When  Sir  Herbert  was  rehearsing  The  Eternal  City  at 
His  Majesty's,  the  assembled  company  were  interested 
in  a  scene  in  which  he  had  to  throw  Miss  Constance 
Collier  roughly  on  the  ground.  This  performance  had 
to  be  repeated  over  and  over  again,  poor  Miss  Collier, 
in  the  interests  of  art,  throwing  herself  into  it — or  being 
thrown  on  the  boards  by  Sir  Herbert — it's  all  the  same 
thing.  She  was  panting  and  dusty  and  dishevelled, 
when,  as  an  excuse  perhaps  to  give  her  a  breather,  the 
distinguished  author  of  the  play,  Mr.  (Sir)  Hall  Caine, 
stepped  forward  and,  in  his  quiet,  deliberate  manner, 
related  how  he  had  witnessed  in  a  remote  village  theatre 
in  Italy  a  most  remarkable  scene  of  seeming  brutality 
between  the  leading  actor  and  leading  lady,  terminating 
by  the  actor  flinging  the  lady  over  his  head.  He  could 
never  forget  the  terror  of  the  audience  or  the  effect 
of  that  awful  thud  on  the  boards. 

Sir  Herbert  Tree  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  massive 
form  of  Miss  Collier,  felt  his  biceps,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  beckoning  the  full  stage  of  performers  to  a  dark 
corner  of  it,  said  with  the  awe-inspiring  air  he  could  so 
well  adopt : 

"  What  Mr.  Hall  Caine  has  just  told  us  is  very  interest- 
ing— but,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  seen  a  far  more 
brutal  and  blood-curdling  performance  than  that.  It 
was  years  ago,  in  a  very  small  theatre  indeed,  at  Margate. 
The  brute  of  a  man  caught  his  wife  by  her  heels,  and  with 
tremendous  force  swung  her  bodily  over  his  head,  and 
bashed  her  head  several  times,  crash !  crash !  on  to  the 
floor.  She  was  Judy  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SOME   UNREHEARSED    STAGE    EFFECTS 

Misther  Levy — Our  Flat — Mr.  Kendal's  trousers — Leah's  dilemma — The 
"star-trap" — Mr.  Gladstone  on  the  stage — Miss  Mary  Anderson's 
pose — Mrs.  Kendal  in  "  Pantomime  " — Toole's  dresser — The  two 
Berthas 

THE  following  unrehearsed  effects  and  startling,  if 
amusing,  incidents  of  the  stage  are  only  such  as  I  have 
either  witnessed  myself  or  have  heard  of  personally  from 
those  who  have.  Most  of  them,  to  my  knowledge,  have 
not  so  far  been  described  in  print. 

No  more  popular  figure  existed  in  the  old  Theatre 
Royal,  Dublin,  than  Levy,  the  conductor.  He  was  the 
father  of  some  very  celebrated  musicians — one  of  them 
was  Levy  the  cornet-player,  who  made  such  a  sensation 
with  his  cornet  and  his  diamond  rings  in  the  Promenade 
Concerts  at  Covent  Garden,  under  Riviere's  direction, 
twenty-five  years  ago.  Old  Levy  had  a  very  large  family 
("  Paganini  redivivus  "  was  another  of  his  famous  sons), 
and  a  story  is  told  that  when  conducting  the  overture  to 
an  opera  in  the  Theatre  Royal,  a  boy  jumped  up  from 
under  the  stage  and  said  : 

"  Misther  Levy !  Misther  Levy !  Your  woive  has 
just  had  a  babby !  " 

"  The  Lord  be  praised  for  all  His  mercies !  "  said  the 

conductor,  keeping  the  baton  going. 

216 


A   STUDY   OF   TREE   IN   AMERICA, 
2I7 


2i8  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

In  a  few  seconds  the  boy  again  appeared. 
"  Misther  Levy  !     Misther  Levy  !  " 
"  Well,  boy,  is  anything  wrong  ?  " 
"  Missis  Levy  has  had  another  babby,  sor  !  " 
"Thank    Heaven!     All's    well ! "    And    the    baton 
waved  with  greater  vigour,  working  up  the  orchestra  to 
a  tremendous  flourish.     Once  more  he  was  disturbed  by 
the  same  messenger. 

"  Misther  Levy  !     Misther  Levy  !  " 
"  Git  out,  boy  !     What's  the  matter  now  ?  " 
"  Begorrah,  there's  another  !     As  y'  call  'em,  trins !  " 
The  conductor  rose  and,  putting  down  his  baton,  said  : 
"  Gintlemen,  it's  toime  I  wint  home  and  put  a  stop 
to  this !  " 

Here  is  another  Irish  story.  The  great  baritone, 
Signor  Foli,  when  singing  in  grand  opera  in  his  native 
city,  Cork,  had  to  sing  one  of  his  songs  from  a  stage 
balcony.  The  arrangements  were  not  very  perfect,  and 
the  manager,  fearing  the  carpenter  had  not  made  the 
balcony  strong  enough  to  sustain  the  weight  of  the  big 
man,  told  off  two  assistants  to  hold  it  up  from  beneath. 
The  lengthy  Signor  was  only  half  through  his  song  when 
one  man  said  to  the  other  : 

"Be  jabers,  Moike,  this  Oitalian  is  moighty  heavy  !  " 
"  Let's  dhrop  him,  Pat ;   he's  only  an  Oitalian,  afther 
all !  " 

Voice  from  the  Signor  above  :  "  Will  ye,  ye  devils,  will 
ye?" 

"  Tare-an'-'ouns !  Pat,  but  he's  an  Oirishman ;  hould 
him  up  for  the  loife  of  yez !  " 

A  friend  of  mine — one  of  the  most  popular  authors  of 
the  present  day — began  life,  like  so  many  authors,  as  an 
actor.  "  The  worst  actor  that  ever  trod  the  boards,"  he 


SIR   BEERBOHM   TREE. 
219 


220  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

said  to  me  a  few  days  ago.  "  I  could  never  recollect  my 
part  or  my  '  business,'  and  without  my  glasses  I  am  as 
blind  as  a  bat.  My  first  chance  was  in  a  travelling  com- 
pany as  the  lift  attendant  in  Our  Flat,  and  I  walked  on 
the  first  night  with  them  on.  This  caused  the  ire  of 
the  principal  actor  and  manager  to  rise.  '  Whoever  saw 
a  lift-man  in  pince-nez  ? ' 

"  '  All  right,'  I  replied.  '  I'll  take  them  off  to-morrow 
night,  but  I  will  not  answer  for  the  consequences.' 

"  The  next  evening  I  entered,  and  the  first  thing  I 
did  was  to  knock  over  a  table  and  fall  into  a  seat  I  didn't 
see.  When  I  went  off  there  stood  the  actor-manager 
ready  to  kill  me.  '  You  have  spoilt  all  my  business,'  he 
said.  '  /  was  to  knock  over  that  table,  you  fool,  and  fall 
into  that  chair.  The  performance  is  ruined.' ' 

And  so  was  my  friend's  career  as  an  actor. 

The  Kendals  went  over  to  America  some  years  ago,  I 
believe  for  the  first  time,  with  the  hall-mark  of  English 
appreciation  strong  upon  them.  The  house  was  crowded 
to  see  our  cleverest  English  actress  and  her  talented 
husband. 

It  was  a  Society  play,  and  in  those  days,  far  more  than 
in  the  present  time,  the  young  men  about  town,  and  the 
old  ones  too,  looked  upon  a  theatre  as  an  English  education 
in  modern  dress,  from  the  curl  of  the  top-hat  to  the  toes 
of  the  boots. 

Mr.  Kendal,  the  best-dressed  man  on  the  stage,  was 
furious  when  he  discovered  that  his  valet,  in  some  in- 
describable moment  of  forgetfulness,  had  folded  his 
trousers  wrongly,  so  that  the  crease  came  down  the  side 
instead  of  the  front  of  the  leg. 

There  was  no  time  to  alter  matters.  The  curtain  was 
up,  the  trousers  were  on,  and  Mr.  Kendal  made  his  debut. 


SOME  UNREHEARSED  STAGE  EFFECTS    221 

The  following  morning  the  play  received  a  portion  of 
a  column,  the  actor  and  actress  the  rest  of  the  column, 
but  the  "  new  fashion  in  pressing  trousers "  ran  into 
several  columns. 

But  to  return  to  the  Irish.  A  very  different  effect 
was  once  caused  by  an  actor's  clothes.  When  the  late 


"  THEM'S  CLOTHES." 

Sir  Henry  Irving  was  a  young  actor  and  made  his  first 
appearance  in  Dublin  in  a  costume  play — what  actors 
would  call  "  a  thin  part " — he  looked  the  part  to  per- 
fection so  far  as  the  thinness  went.  Perhaps  there  was 
no  actor  in  our  time  that  looked  as  thin  in  some  costumes 
as  Sir  Henry.  A  new-comer  to  the  famous  old  Theatre 
Royal,  in  which  every  member  of  that  distinguished  stock 


222  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

company  was  familiar  to  the  man  in  the  gallery,  called 
forth  critical  scrutiny.  So  when  young  Irving  walked 
on  in  his  peculiar  mannerised  way  the  dead  silence  of 
the  house  was  broken  by  a  man  in  the  gallery  calling  out 
to  his  friend  on  the  other  side  of  the  circle,  "  Tare-an' 
-'ouns !  Phwat's  that  ?  " 

"  That  ?  Whoi,  them's  clothes.  I  suppose  the  man 
phwat  owns  them  will  come  on  afther  them." 

I  have  never  come  across  an  account  of  the  contretemps 
at  Liverpool,  when  Miss  Bateman,  in  the  height  of  her 
fame,  was  playing  the  Jewess  in  Leah.  The  great  scene 
of  that  once  popular  drama  is  that  in  which  Leah  returns 
to  the  home  of  her  lover  to  hear  of  his  marriage  with 
another  woman,  and  the  effect  is  piled  up  in  true  melo- 
dramatic style  when  a  pretty  little  child  runs  out  of  the 
house.  Leah,  to  slow  music,  calls  the  child  towards  her, 
and  asks,  in  trembling  tones,  "  What  is  your  name,  my 
little  child  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Leah." 

The  effect  of  this  reply  upon  the  actress  and  upon 
the  audience  was  sublime.  But  one  day  that  youthful 
member  of  Miss  Bateman's  company  was  unfortunately 
unable  to  play.  A  substitute  had  to  be  found  and 
rehearsed.  The  stop-gap  happened  to  be  the  little 
daughter  of  one  of  the  stage-carpenters,  hailing  from  the 
Emerald  Isle.  Leah  was  perfect  at  rehearsal.  "  My 
name  is  Leah  !  "  Then  came  the  performance.  It  was 
a  Saturday  night  and  the  house  was  packed.  The  great 
scene  was  begun  with  its  usual  intensity.  The  critical 
moment  arrived.  The  child  ran  out ;  Leah  called  her. 
The  child  was  struck  with  stage-fright. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  little  child  ?  " 

Tears. 


SOME  UNREHEARSED  STAGE  EFFECTS    223 

The  all-important  question  was  repeated  to  slow  music. 

Pause. 

The  question  was  repeated  a  third  time,  by  which  the 
effect  was  rather  heightened  than  destroyed. 

More  tears,  and  then — 

"  Moi  name  is  Biddy  Maloney,  Miss." 

The  effect  of  this  reply  upon  the  actress  and  upon 
the  audience  may  be  better  imagined  than  described. 

There  is  a  well-known  farce,  No  Song,  No  Supper, 
which  for  generations  has  been  popular  with  the  public 
as  a  curtain-raiser.  A  meal  takes  place  on  the  scene,  and 
the  author  made  it  a  sine  qua  non  that  a  real  leg  of  mutton 
should  be  boiled  with  trimmings  and  placed  on  the  table 
every  night  his  piece  was  played.  This  leg  of  mutton 
was  subsequently  enjoyed  by  the  "  guests  "  in  the  scene. 
The  flavour  of  the  joint,  rising  to  the  floats,  made  the 
poor  scene-shifters  sitting  up  aloft  both  hungry  and 
envious.  At  last  one  of  them  made  a  bargain  with  one 
of  the  "  guests  "  that  if  he  let  down  a  line  with  a  hook 
at  the  end,  he  would  attach  it  to  the  leg  of  mutton,  and 
that  they,  working  above,  should  at  least  have  one  night's 
supper. 

It  so  happened  the  applause  on  the  fall  of  the  curtain, 
probably  a  Saturday  night,  was  greater  than  usual,  and 
the  curtain  was  rung  up  at  once,  when,  to  the  delight 
of  the  audience,  the  leg  of  mutton  was  seen  rising  like 
a  balloon. 

The  favourite  American  actress,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  in  her 
Stage  Reminiscences,  includes  an  amusing  incident  that 
occurred  during  the  performance  of  Faust  in  Dublin. 
Something  went  wrong  with  the  trap  that  should  have 
let  Mephistopheles  down  to  the  lower  regions.  He  stuck 
half-way,  and  all  the  efforts  of  the  stage  carpenters  failing 


234  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

to  move  him  down,  the  curtain  was  lowered.  A  voice 
from  the  gallery  shouted,  "  Hurrah,  boys,  hell's  full ! " 

The  "  star-trap,"  too,  is  responsible  for  many  a  con- 
tretemps such  as  the  one  here  to  be  related.  A  clever 
friend  of  mine,  the  well-known  author,  the  late  Richard 
Dowling,  of  Dublin,  had  his  chances  as  a  dramatist  ruined 
by  a  "  star-trap  "  incident,  on  the  first  night  of  his  only 
play  in  London.  His  drama  was  of  the  most  sensational 
kind,  and  was  produced  by  a  lady  who  once  ran  the 
theatre  now  known  as  the  Queen's.  She  played  the 
heroine,  a  fair  young  lady,  whom,  without  being  ungallant, 
one  might  describe  as  "  buxom."  The  great  scene  is 
the  attempted  murder  of  the  heroine  by  the  villain  in  a 
house  built  on  piles  over  the  river  Thames.  The  lady  is 
a  somnambulist.  There  is  a  trap-door  in  the  centre  of 
the  hall,  close  under  which  rushed  the  deep  waters  of  the 
Thames.  To  slow  music  the  heroine,  like  Lady  Macbeth 
— with  a  clearer  conscience  certainly,  but  with  as  dim  a 
light  in  her  hand — walks  down  the  stairs.  The  villain 
opens  the  trap-door,  and  the  lady  walks  into  it.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
she  is  gone  !  But,  alas !  Ha  !  ha  !  she  didn't  go.  Not 
being  in  Dublin,  no  wit  was  present  to  call  out  "  Hurrah, 
boys,  the  river's  fulli! "  neither  was  it  the  fault  of  the 
"  star-trap,"  but  of  the  "  star  "  herself  Unfortunately 
she  had  not  the  figure  of  a  Mephistopheles,  and  as  she 
had  not  been  measured  for  the  trap,  she  stuck  fast  in 
the  opening,  and  so  the  curtain  and  my  aspiring  dramatic 
friend's  countenance  fell  simultaneously. 

A  little  incident  of  the  memorable  first  night  of  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  is  fresh  in  my  memory.  Pinero 
and  I  dined  together  at  the  Garrick  Club — or  rather  I 
dined  and  he,  like  Beau  Brummell,  "  toyed  with  a  piece 
of  toast."  We  drove  immediately  to  the  theatre  to- 


gether  ;  before  I  had  time  to  take  a  dozen  whiffs  of  my 
cigarette  he  "  went  behind,"  and  I  to  my  seat  in  the 
centre  of  the  stalls.  The  curtain  was  going  up  as  I 
entered.  The  scene  on  the  stage  of  the  finish  of  the  little 
dinner-party  at  Tanqueray's  was  so  realistic  I,  in  my 
absent-mindedness,  actually  took  a  cigarette  out  of  my 
case  and  put  it  in  my  mouth,  and  was  about  to  strike  a 
match  when  my  neighbour  in  the  stalls  stopped  me.  I 
really  imagined  for  the  moment  that  I  was  one  of  the 
small  dinner-party ! 

I  now  come  to  a  first  night  at  the  Lyceum  when  Miss 
Mary  Anderson  made  her  initial  performance  in  the 
romantic  part  of  Perdita.  In  the  great  scene  she  is  wooed 
by  the  rough,  picturesque  lover,  on  this  occasion  played 
by  "  Handsome  Jack  Barnes."  As  she  rose  to  her  feet 
it  was  perceived,  to  the  delight  of  us  all,  but  to  the  dis- 
comfiture of  the  actors,  that  Mr.  Barnes's  wig  had  caught 
in  the  shoulder-clasp  of  Perdita,  and  rose  with  her,  and 
furthermore  refused  to  be  detached  for  some  time. 

When  Miss  Anderson  arrived  in  London  she  was  only 
known  to  English  people  by  the  art  of  the  camera.  Her 
first  appearance,  as  I  have  said,  was  as  Perdita,  and  I 
thought  her  the  most  charming  figure  I  had  ever  seen  on 
the  stage.  I  was  the  first  artist  in  England  to  make  a 
sketch  of  her ;  she  kindly  posed  for  me  after  a  perform- 
ance at  the  Lyceum,  and  when  she  asked  me  the  position 
I  would  like  her  to  take  I  mentioned  one  she  had  assumed 
in  the  second  act,  in  which  she  stood  holding  the  drapery 
in  her  hand,  which  was  resting  on  her  hip. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes ;  that  attitude  struck  me  as  the  most  artistic 
of  all  your  graceful  movements,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  as  a  matter  of  fact  my  robes  had 


226 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


come  unfastened  and  were  falling  off,  and  I  was  holding 
them  on ;  but  I  shall  now  purposely  make  them  slip  in 
the  same  way."  And  that  pose  was  repeated  nightly 
during  the  run  of  the  play. 

Even  this  popular  actress  could  not  escape  the  chaff  of 
"  the  gods."  She  was  playing  Galatea  in  Sir  W.  S. 

Gilbert's  play — 
and  a  charming 
Galatea  she 
made — when,  in 
the  critical  scene 
in  which  she 
appeals  to  the 
gods  to  enable 
her  to  bring 
Pygmalion  and 
Cynisca  to- 
gether again, 
the  actress  held 
up  her  arms 
and,  unconsci- 
ously looking  up 
at  the  gallery, 
cried  out, "  The 
gods  will  help 
me ! "  To  Miss  Anderson's  surprise,  all  the  occupants  of 
the  gallery,  as  if  by  pre-arrangement,  called  out  with  one 
voice,  "  We  will !  " 

Some  of  the  unrehearsed  effects  on  the  stage  take 
place  when  the  curtain  is  down.  As  is  well  known,  Mrs. 
Kendal  has  a  pretty  wit,  and  when  at  rehearsal  has  a 
pleasant  way  of  distributing  the  fruits  of  her  life-long 
experience  of  the  stage.  A  young  actor  in  the  cast  at 


PERDITA'S  PREDICAMENT. 


SOME  UNREHEARSED  STAGE  EFFECTS    227 

His  Majesty's,  not  appreciating  the  kindliness  of  the 
distinguished  actress  in  thus  giving  her  valuable  advice, 
was  gently  reprimanded  by  Sir  Beerbohm  Tree,  who  said 
it  was  the  duty  of  any  one  in  the  profession  to  defer  to  the 
great  exponent  of  the  art  dramatic,  whose  opinions  were 
golden.  Subsequently,  during  the  rehearsal,  the  scene 
arrived  in  which  Falstaff  is  secreted  in  a  clothes-basket. 
Mrs.  Kendal  raised  an  objection  to  some  of  the  "  business." 

"  Is  it  not  possible  to  '  cut '  some  of  this  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not,"  said  the  manager-actor,  "  the  British 
public  demands  that  the  immortal  bard  shall  be  rendered 
in  toto" 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Mrs.  Kendal,  "  but  you  must  re- 
member that  it  is  long  since  I  acted  in  pantomime." 

Miss  Ellen  Terry  appeared  in  the  same  production. 

As  the  two  great  actresses  were  walking  on  the  stage  a 
few  nights  afterwards,  a  wag  standing  at  the  wings  said 
in  an  audible  aside  to  a  friend,  "  Now  then,  make  way  for 
the  stars."  Mrs.  Kendal,  overhearing  this  remark, 
turned  round  and  curtsied.  "  Stars,  did  you  say  ?  " 
queried  she,  "  I  think  you  ought  to  say  '  ancient  lights ' !  " 

I  have  referred  previously  to  the  best-dressed  actor  and 
his  trousers.  Now  let  me  introduce  a  story  related  by  the 
worst-dressed  actor,  our  dear  friend,  the  late  lamented 
Johnny  Toole,  and  the  very  worst  trousers  that  ever 
appeared  on  the  stage.  Toole  wore  them  whenever  he 
played  the  Artful  Dodger  in  Oliver  Twist,  which  part 
delighted  the  theatre-going  public  for  many  years.  In 
a  way  these  trousers  were  historical.  They  were  really 
old,  had  never  been  patched  up,  and,  like  much  of  the 
glory  in  the  old  masters'  paintings,  time  had  improved 
them — at  least,  for  the  purpose  of  the  character  actor. 
They  really  belonged  to  Murray,  the  famous  Edinburgh 


228 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


actor,  who  wore  them  for  some  years  on  the  stage  in  a 
small  part  in  a  play  entitled  The  Heart  of  Midlothian. 
Scott  had  seen  old  Murray  in  the  part,  and  was  particularly 

struck  by  the  trousers. 
When  Charles 
Dickens  saw  Toole 
play  the  Dodger,  and 
in  turn  admired  the 
trousers,  Toole  in- 
formed the  great 
novelist  that  Scott 
had  been  also  im- 
pressed with  them ; 
and,  to  use  Toole's 
own  words,  "  Dickens 
was  very  much  in- 
terested ;  it  seemed  to 
make  him  thoughtful, 
and  he  mentioned 
the  name  of  Scott 
with  something  like 
reverence." 

Well,  these  his- 
torical garments  were 
once  the  cause  of 
an  unrehearsed  effect 
at  the  door  of  a 
theatre,  and  all  but 
led  to  a  great  disappointment  to  a  large  audience 
assembled  at  a  benefit.  Toole,  who  was  playing  in 
another  theatre,  ran  round  to  the  one  at  which  he  was 
already  due  to  play  the  Artful  Dodger.  The  door- 
keeper was  new  to  his  work.  He  did  not  know  Toole, 


TOOLE   AS  THE  ARTFUL  DODGER. 


SOME  UNREHEARSED  STAGE  EFFECTS    229 

but  only  saw  these  shabby  old  trousers,  and  absolutely 
refused  to  believe  they  could  be  worn  by  any  one  with  any 
pretension  to  respectability.  Toole  was  in  a  dilemma ; 
the  stage  was  waiting.  "  Well,"  said  the  witty  actor, 
"  you  don't  understand  me.  I'm  not  Mr.  Toole,  whose 
name  you  see  on  that  play-bill.  I'm  only  his  dresser." 

"  Ah,  that's  a  'oss  of  another  colour ;  why  didn't  you 
say  so  afore  ?  " 

Poor  Toole  was  in  the  same  way  denied  admittance  to 


his  own  club.  I  was  giving  a  dinner-party  which,  when 
the  theatres  were  closed,  was  in  full  swing.  The  hall 
porter  came  in  to  me  shortly  after  eleven  to  say  that  my 
cabman  had  been  waiting.  He  refused  to  go,  and  was 
trying  to  force  his  way  into  the  Garrick.  I  told  him  I 
had  no  cabman  waiting,  and  to  tell  the  impostor  to  be  off. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  above  note  was  placed  in  my  hands, 
and  in  walked  a  cabman,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  hall- 
porter  and  waiters — no  other  than  dear  Johnny  Toole, 
coat,  whip,  trousers  and  all  to  the  life. 


230  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Toole  relates  a  unique  unrehearsed  effect  that  hap- 
pened to  him  when  playing  in  Dot,  a  dramatised  version  of 
"The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth."  The  young  lady  who  played 
Bertha,  the  blind  girl,  was  suddenly  taken  ill  after  the 
first  act.  She  fainted  in  her  dressing-room,  and,  all 
means  of  restoration  proving  useless,  the  manager  was 
forced  to  ask  a  lady  of  the  company  who  was  not  acting 
that  night,  but  who  was  in  the  theatre,  to  take  the  part  of 
Bertha,  so  that  the  piece  could  proceed,  Toole  assuring 
her  that  he  would  give  her  the  words  as  the  play  went  on. 
She  refused  to  accede  to  this. 

"  I'll  go  on  and  do  my  best,  but  I  must  read  the  part." 

"  Great  heavens !  "  Toole  replied.  "  That  would 
never  do.  You're  the  blind  girl." 

"  Then  I  shall  not  move,"  she  replied.  "  I'll  read  the 
part  or  nothing." 

Irving,  who  was  playing  John  Peerybingle,  went  in 
front  of  the  curtain,  and  informed  the  audience  that  in 
consequence  of  the  sudden  illness  of  the  actress  whom 
they  had  seen  playing  the  part  of  Bertha,  another  lady 
was  going  on  in  her  place,  but  would  have  to  read  the 
lines. 

Sympathetic  applause  showed  that  the  house  accepted 
the  peculiar  solution  of  the  difficulty.  It  was  prepared  to 
see  a  blind  girl  reading. 

Toole  went  on,  and  in  one  of  the  most  pathetic  parts 
of  the  play  looked  round  for  the  entrance  of  the  blind 
girl.  To  his  astonishment,  he  saw  two  ladies  wrestling 
at  the  wings.  It  appears  that  the  two  actresses,  the  lady 
who  had  fainted  and  the  other  who  had  agreed  to  take 
her  part,  were  at  daggers  drawn.  The  fainting  lady  had 
recovered  in  time  to  hear  that  her  rival  was  taking  her 
place,  and  she  was  determined  at  all  risks  to  proceed. 


SOME  UNREHEARSED  STAGE  EFFECTS    231 

This  sudden  double  change  was  so  unrehearsed  that  in 
her  excitement  the  real  Bertha,  who  was  blind,  walked 


A   CRISIS  IN   TOOLE'S  PERFORMANCE   OF   "  THE  CRICKET   ON   THE 
HEARTH." 

on  with  a  defiant  look  of  triumph  and  her  eyes  wide  open. 
She  remembered  her  part,  but  quite  forgot,  although  the 
audience  didn't,  that  she  was  blind  ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ART   ON   THE   STAGE 

A  blank  canvas — Peg  Woffington — The  "  Divine  Sarah,"  sculptor — Tree's 
match — Alexander's  hand — Miss  Terry's  gown — Neville's  ribbon — 
Falstaff's  boot— Nance  Oldfield's  coffee 

SINCE  the  days  of  Hogarth  artists  have  been  the  com- 
panions and  friends  of  actors.  By  artists  I  mean  those 
few  who  are  men  of  the  world,  and  not  the  mole  type  of 
painter,  who  apparently  goes  to  sleep  for  the  winter 
and  wakes  up  for  the  picture  shows  in  the  spring. 

There  is  a  great  deal  in  common  between  the  actor  and 
the  artist.  The  true  artist  is  strongly  dramatic,  for 
should  not  every  picture  be  a  play  ?  And  the  actor 
must  be  an  artist,  for  should  not  every  scene  he  acts  in  be 
a  picture  ?• 

Both  enjoy  and  learn  much  from  each  other. 

Still,  I  have  often  been  impressed  as  an  artist  by  the 
want  of  care  in  details  which  is  sometimes  exhibited  even 
in  the  best  theatres,  and  by  the  most  painstaking  and 
assiduous  of  stage  managers.  A  few  instances  must 
suffice  to  illustrate  my  meaning. 

I  have  seen,  for  instance,  at  a  West  End  London  theatre 
the  typical  artist  of  modern  comedy  in  the  velveteen  coat, 
red  tie,  and  auburn  moustache,  who  always  falls  madly 

in  love  with  a  daughter  of  the  house  in  the  first  act, 

232 


ART  ON  THE  STAGE  233 

painting    a   water-colour   sketch   upon   paper   with   oil 
brushes,  and  many  other  similar  discrepancies. 

At  another  London  theatre  of  good  standing,  I  re- 
member there  was  a  play  being  performed,  in  which  the 
wife,  daughter,  female  servants,  in  fact  the  whole  house- 
hold, seemed  at  one  fell  swoop  to  have  fallen  easy  victims 
to  the  irresistible  fascinations  of  another  disciple  of  the 
palette  who  had  arrived  at  a  country  house  to  paint  a 
portrait  of  its  mistress.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it. 
Every  one  on  the  stage  seemed  to  be  in  love  with  him, 
and  the  poor  man  appeared  to  be  positively  at  his  wits' 
end  to  get  his  work  done  among  such  a  multitude  of 
amours  as  he  was  called  upon  to  conduct.  His  interrup- 
tions were  endless.  The  canvas  upon  which  he  was 
painting  the  chef-d'oeuvre  was,  judiciously  as  the  sequel 
will  show,  turned  away  from  the  footlights  so  that  the 
audience  could  only  see  the  back  of  it.  First  the 
heroine  would  come  sidling  in,  and,  gazing  at  it  with 
a  hysterical  simper,  exclaim,  "  Oh,  Alphonse,  my  heart's 
idol !  Can  it  be  that  I  am  indeed  so  wondrous  fair  as 
that !  "  and  turning  aside  mutter  in  sotto  voce,  "  Does  he 
then  indeed  love  me  ?  "  and  similar  remarks.  Presently 
a  saucy  housemaid  or  femme  de  chambre  would  pop  in 
with  a  note,  and  catching  sight  of  the  priceless  work  of 
art  on  the  easel,  declare  with  irrepressible  enthusiasm — 
"  Why,  it's  missus !  and  the  very  image  of  her,  I  do 
declare  !  Ain't  the  dress  beautiful  ?  "  Just  for  all  the 
world  like  certain  art-critics  at  the  Academy.  A  little 
later  came  the  husband's  turn.  He  had  a  very  tragic 
scene  in  front  of  the  portrait,  and  then,  at  a  critical 
moment,  when  all  the  characters  were  gazing  at  it  to- 
gether, and  uniting  in  a  chorus  of  unqualified  admiration 
at  the  Sir  Joshua-like  genius  of  the  velvet-coated  one, 


234 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


the  easel  ignominiously  toppled  over,  and  laughter  rang 
long  and  loud  through  the  house  when  the  canvas  which 
had  excited  such  unbounded  enthusiasm  was  discovered 
to  be  perfectly  blank ! 

Making  every  allowance  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  the 
managerial  mind  upon  first  nights,  and  with  no  wish  to 


"THE  CANVAS  WAS  DISCOVERED  TO  BE  PERFECTLY  BLANK." 

be  the  least  hypercritical,[it  certainly  did  occur  to  me  that 
the  property  man  might  have  been  instructed  to  paste 
an  oleograph  upon  the  virgin  canvas,  even  if  the  scenic 
artist,  with  heaps  of  trouble  upon  his  mind  at  the  last 
moment,  owing  to  the  recalcitrant  back-cloth,  or  a  too- 
obtrusive  sky-border,  would  not  condescend  to  daub  in 
a  portrait  of  the  most  elementary  description. 

In  these  days  when  dramatic  critics  are  nothing  if  they 


ART  ON  THE  STAGE  235 

are  not  exact  and  omniscient,  it  may  be  interesting  to 
record  one  or  two  instances  of  almost  ludicrous  napping 
on  their  part.  In  the  praiseworthy  reproduction  of 
Masks  and  Faces  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  a  few  years 
ago,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bancroft,  now  Sir  Squire  and 
Lady  Bancroft,  received  columns  of  eulogy  in  the  press 
about  the  wonderful  dresses  and  mise  en  scene  of  the 
revival  and  were  justly  commended  for  the  minute 
attention  to  details  which  was  displayed,  not  a  single 
critic  detected  that  Triplet  had  the  picture  which  he 
was  supposed  to  be  painting  placed  against  the  window 
in  such  a  manner  that  no  light  could  possibly  have  fallen 
upon  it,  whereas  the  merest  tyro  in  art  is  aware  that  when 
a  painter  is  at  work  he  invariably  places  his  easel  at  right- 
angles  to  the  window  so  as  to  receive  all  the  light  that 
is  possible.  Again,  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt,  who  is 
supposed  to  be  something  of  an  artist  as  well  as  an  actress? 
is  called  upon  in  one  of  her  marvellous  creations  to  enact 
the  role  of  a  sculptor,  and  to  model  a  certain  bust  in  view 
of  the  audience.  This  fairly  electrified  the  "  snarling 
brood,"  as  the  late  James  Albery  was  wont  to  call  the 
theatrical  critics ;  but  when  going  into  rhapsodies  over 
the  technical  skill  in  handling  the  clay  which  Madame 
Bernhardt  exhibited,  they  showed  that  they  knew  little 
of  the  artistic  tricks  of  actors  and  actresses ;  as  a  matter 
of  fact  she  does  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  bust  is 
modelled  and  baked,  and  over  it  is  placed  damp  clay  of 
the  same  colour.  This  the  talented  actress  merely  pulls 
off,  leaving  the  beautifully  modelled  head  underneath. 

I  well  recollect  the  first  night  of  La  Tosca  at  the 
Lyceum.  The  "  Divine  Sarah "  looked  as  young  as  a 
fascinating  girl  of  seventeen  and  spoke  with  that 
charming  voice  which  all  who  have  heard  her  will 


236 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


ever  remember.    Her  lover  is  at  the  moment  of  her 
entry  supposed  to  be  painting  a  fresco  in  the  church  or 

cathedral,  but  he 
paints  it  on  the 
usual  stretched 
canvas.  Fresco- 
painting  has  to  be 
done  on  freshly- 
prepared  cement 
put  on  in  bits  as 
the  painter  works, 
and  his  colours 
dry  simultaneously 
with  the  cement 
or  whatever  pre- 
paration he  may 
use  —  another  in- 
congruity in  art 
matters  on  the 
stage,  and  strange 
to  say,  as  I  have 
mentioned,  Sarah 
Bernhardt  is  an 
artist.  So  was  Sir 
Herbert  Beerbohm 
Tree,  when  he 
produced  Sir  Hall 
Caine's  drama  The 
Eternal  City 


"  THE   DIVINE   SARAH." 


n 


which  a  portrait  in 
clay  again  played  an  important  part.  The  portrait  is 
in  progress,  therefore  the  clay  is  wet,  in  fact  Lai 
Brough  as  the  assistant  in  the  studio  had  to  see  that 


ART  ON  THE  STAGE  237 

that  was  done — in  the  presence  of  the  audience.  Sir 
H.  Tree,  a  few  minutes  later,  to  show  his  contempt  for 
the  sitter,  strikes  a  match  across  the  bust  and  lights 
his  cigarette,  an  effective  and  subtle  piece  of  business 
which  went  down  with  the  audience,  but  roused  me 
to  ask  Tree  over  supper  after  the  play  how  he,  an 
artist,  could  do  anything  so  absurd  as  to  light  a  match 
on  wet  clay,  and  anything  so  clever,  for  I  knew  the  clay 
was  wet. 

"  You  artists  are  too  critical,"  he  replied.  "  It  will 
never  strike  the  public  one  can't  light  a  match  on  wet 
clay." 

"  But  how  did  you  ?  " 

"  Ah — simple  enough  !  I  had  let  into  the  clay  at  the 
back  of  the  bust  a  piece  of  metal  purposely  made  to  strike 
matches  upon — same  as  you  see  in  railway  carriages." 

Sir  George  Alexander  produced  a  play  by  Mr.  Alfred 
Sutro,  John  Glayde's  Honour,  in  which  there  is  a  studio 
scene  with  the  usual  studio  properties  around.  The 
statue  of  the  Venus  of  Milo,  without  which  no  artist's 
studio  is  complete,  was  prominent — was  too  prominent,  in 
fact,  for  it  was  as  white  as  snow,  and  evidently  had  just 
been  sent  from  the  modeller's  shop — as  well  as  other 
casts  hanging  on  the  walls.  This  grated  upon  the  artistic 
eye,  for  I  have  never  seen  any  studio,  except  that  of  a 
young  lady  who  has  just  left  the  art  schools,  with  a  statue 
that  was  not  well  browned  with  smoke  and  dust,  probably 
disfigured  with  memoranda  of  pencils,  and  adorned 
with  some  property  or  perhaps  the  solitary  tall  hat  of 
the  Bohemian  artist.  Furthermore  the  cast  of  a  hand, 
hanging  on  the  wall,  which  was  just  the  height  of  the 
actor's,  was  exactly  the  pose  of  Sir  George  Alexander's 
hand  as  he  stood  in  front  of  it  and  made  his  most  effective 


238  MY  BOHEMIAN   DAYS 

speech.  A  hurried  note  from  me  that  evening,  I  believe, 
rectified  these  artistic  blemishes  in  this  clever  production. 
Still,  all  the  private  letters  in  the  world  to  actors  from  an 
artist  will  never  cure  them  of  going  on  to  the  stage  with 
clothes,  hat,  and  boots  fresh  from  their  costumier's.  Over 
and  over  again  a  hunting  man  will  come  on  to  the  scene 
and  describe  some  splendid  run  he  has  just  had  with  the 
hounds,  or  he  may  be  a  country  gentleman  who  lives 
in  the  saddle,  yet  his  boots  are  spotless :  there  is  no  muck 
upon  them,  and  no  sign  of  chafing  of  the  stirrup-leather. 

These  are  small  details,  but  it  is  not  artists  only  who 
detect  them,  but  all  whom  they  may  concern  in  these 
latter  items,  hunting  men  and  squires. 

I  suppose  that  ladies,  who  form  the  greater  portion  of 
theatre-goers,  are  quite  reconciled  by  this  time  to  seeing 
the  village  maiden,  the  poor  cottager's  daughter,  the 
fisherman's  child,  in  the  worst  weathers  tripping  about 
the  muddy  roads  and  storm-washed  shores  in  the  lightest 
of  muslin  gowns  and  the  daintiest  of  French  high-heeled 
shoes.  But  were  an  artist  to  paint  a  picture  and  so 
depict  nature,  the  critics  would  soon  remind  him  of  his 
faults. 

In  large  productions  some  startling  incongruities  have 
met  my  eye.  Miss  Terry's  famous  performance  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  immortalised  by  Sargeant's  painting  of  her  in 
that  part,  now  hanging  in  the  Tate  Gallery,  shows  her 
in  a  dress  that  Lady  Macbeth  never  could  have  worn. 
It  is  most  effective,  and  is  made  out  of  beetles'  wings. 

It  so  happened  that  I  was  present  at  an  interesting 
little  dinner,  at  which  Miss  Terry,  who  sat  opposite  to 
me,  was  admiring  the  dress  of  the  lady  by  my  side,  then 
Lady  Randolph  Churchill,  subsequently  Mrs.  George 
Cornwallis  West.  Lady  Randolph  wore  an  evening 


ART  ON  THE  STAGE  239 

gown  made  of  beetles'  wings.  Miss  Terry,  directly  after 
dinner,  asked  Lady  Randolph  if  she  could  inform 
her  where  in  America  they  could  be  obtained.  Lady 
Randolph  tore  off  a  small  portion  of  her  gown  and  gave 
it  to  Miss  Terry.  This  was  the  specimen  out  of  which 
Mrs.  Comyns  Carr  built  the  now  famous  Macbeth  dress 
which  was  never  seen  except  on  Miss  Terry  in  Scotland. 

But  even  the  best  of  actors  make  mistakes  deliberately 
perhaps,  as  the  following  will  show.  In  one  of  the  famous 
Drury  Lane  autumn  dramas,  that  splendid  actor,  Henry 
Neville,  played  the  part  of  the  Premier  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  in  which  he  made  a  great  speech,  but  having 
some  Order  of  the  Garter,  or  something  of  that  kind, 
he  wore  the  broad  ribbon  across  his  shirt  front.  I  took 
the  liberty  of  pointing  out  to  Neville  that  no  members 
in  the  House  wore  their  orders. 

"  True,  my  boy,  perhaps,  but  then,  you  see,  how  on 
earth  would  the  audience  know  I  was  the  big  wig  in  the 
scene  if  I  hadn't  some  distinguishing  badge  ?  " 

I  have  seen  actors  wear  the  Order  of  the  Garter  on  the 
right  leg  instead  of  the  left,  which  reminds  me  of  the 
story  of  the  German  lithographers  who  reproduced  an 
historical  English  picture  in  which  the  King  wears  the 
Order  of  the  Garter.  They  despatched  a  telegram  after 
their  proofs  had  left  them,  to  send  it  back,  as  they  found 
they  had  made  a  great  mistake.  They  had  only  given 
the  King  one  garter,  and  the  production  went  forth  with 
the  order  on  both  legs. 

Good  music  well  sung  must  at  all  times  be  a  source  of 
delight ;  but  if  you  do  happen  to  have  a  soul  for  music, 
but  are  at  the  same  time  endowed  with  a  strong  artistic 
taste,  your  eye  will  be  constantly  offended  and  your 
sense  of  humour  tickled  by  the  incongruities  that  pervade 


240  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

serious  opera.  In  the  drama  the  player  must  make  up 
for  his  part ;  the  cherished  moustache  has  to  be  sacrificed 
at  the  bidding  of  Thespis,  and  the  Grecian  nose  re- 
modelled with  paste  and  besmeared  with  paint  and 
powder  :  indeed,  the  dressing-room  of  the  actor  of  to- 
day is  as  much  a  studio  as  the  workshop  of  an  R.A. 
But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  Italian  operatic  singer  who 
egotistically  struts  through  his  part,  sporting  his  hirsute 
appendage  in  defiance  of  all  artistic  taste  and  accuracy  ? 
This  bare-faced  impudence  (to  make  an  Irish  bull)  is  as 
rampant  among  the  supering  chorus  as  the  leading  artists. 
The  voice  is  the  thing,  costume  and  make-up  are  beneath 
consideration.  Whether  as  soldiers,  courtiers,  villagers, 
saints,  or  sinners,  the  Italian  operatic  singers  parade 
before  us  to  all  appearance  as  third-rate  foreign  waiters 
or  organ-grinders.  As  a  rule  tenors  are  far  from  being 
Adonises.  Fancy  a  beautiful  Violetta,  madly  enamoured 
of  an  Alfredo  such  as  this !  This  is  a  sketch  from  Nature 
made  at  Covent  Garden  a  year  or  two  ago.  Though 
the  gentleman's  voice  may  be  his  fortune,  his  face  most 
decidedly  is  not,  and  were  I  a  manager  I  would  put  up 
in  the  dressing-room  a  notice  saying,  "  No  SHAVE,  NO 
SALARY  !  "  The  costumes  worn  would  make  a  Planche 
turn  in  his  grave,  and  the  finest  voice  that  ever  was 
heard  cannot  compensate  for  the  audacious  wearing  of 
beards  and  moustaches  in  periods  when  no  such  append- 
ages were  worn. 

I  recollect  being  annoyed  by  a  scene  in  Grand  Opera, 
representing  the  seashore.  The  rocks  were  most  in- 
artistically  placed  at  regular  intervals,  like  the  hoops  on 
a  croquet  lawn.  It  was  a  Balfe  opera,  in  which  the 
heroine  dies  of  thirst,  and  I  was  informed  that  as  a 
certain  prima  donna  who  sang  this  dry  part  could  not  get 


ART  ON  THE  STAGE  241 

through  the  great  effort  without  refreshment,  she  rolled 
over  stage  rocks,  behind  which  were  placed  pots  of  stout 
at  frequent  intervals,  at  each  of  which  she  had  a  pull  as 
she  turned  over  in  supposed  anguish. 

What  theatrical  dresses  are  made  of  would  be  an 
interesting  matter  to  discuss.  Sir  Henry  Irving's  princely 
garments,  that  looked  all  right  from  the  front,  were  so 
dear  to  him  he  never  would  alter  them,  and  as  time 
went  on  they  would  have  disgraced  an  old  clothes  shop. 
I  have  had  all  his  costumes  in  my  studio,  so  I  know,  and 
Miss  Terry,  in  her  interesting  Reminiscences,  mentions 
the  fact  that  Sir  Henry  would  never  have  anything  done 
to  smarten  up  the  costumes  he  had  worn  so  long. 

Hurried  dressings  often  bring  about  ludicrous  incon- 
gruities in  costume.  I  remember  in  my  early  days  the 
massive  form  of  the  well-known  English  singer,  Ansly 
Cooke.  I  was  in  his  dressing-room  at  the  old  Adelphi 
when  he  was  playing  Falstaff.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
thankful  for  one  thing,  I  am  blessed  with  an  angel  for  a 
wife — in  fact,  I  do  not  know  whatever  I  should  do  with- 
out her.  I  do  not  trust  to  my  dresser,  my  household 
genius  comes  every  day  and  places  all  my  things  ready 
for  me.  ...  By  Jove,  I'm  late  !  Here,  just  help  me  on 
with  these  infernal  things ;  this  basket  body  of  mine — 
here,  stuff  'em  all  in !  I  am  on  late,  and  Pve  sent  my 
man  out  for  a  paper.  Thanks,  tie  it  up  there — capital 
arrangement,  isn't  it  ?  and  as  light  as  a  feather — all  basket, 
hollow,  nothing  inside.  Well,  that  angel  of  a  wife  of  mine 
— Hang  me !  I've  only  one  boot  on — where  the  deuce  is 
the  other  ?  Overture  over  ?  I  must  be  on  in  a  minute 
— Here,  Thomas,  how  long  you've  been — my  other  boot ! 
Look  sharp  !  Can't  find  it  ?  but  you  must,  and  pretty 
sharp  too !  Didn't  see  to  the  things  ?  Well,  that  angel 
16 


242  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

of  a  wife  has — What,  no  boot !  Gad,  what  has  the  cat  of 
a  woman  done  with  it  ?  Blow  me  !  if  that  old  cow  comes 
meddling  here  again — That's  my  call !  But  where's  my 
boot  ?  Oh,  why  am  I  cursed  with  such  an  ass  for  a 
wife  ?  " 

He  stormed,  he  raged,  his  dresser  and  I  and  the  call- 
boy  searched  everywhere  for  FalstafFs  other  boot.  The 
stage  waits ;  the  singer  curses  his  matrimonial  fate,  it's 
all  his  wife's  fault.  The  language  and  the  room  rise  in 
temperature  considerably.  He  storms,  he  rages,  the 
stage  waits,  and  just  then  my  amateurish  dressing  causes 
his  basket  costume  to  fall  off !  That  moment  I  felt  it 
time  to  escape,  but  just  as  I  was  picking  up  my  hat,  I 
cast  one  glance  at  the  strange,  exciting  scene.  Falstaff, 
in  despair  and  rage  with  one  boot,  and  his  massive  frame 
parted  from  his  waist  lying  in  front  of  him ;  but  to  the 
delight  of  all,  from  within  that  basket  body  stuck  out  the 
missing  boot !  In  the  hurry  of  dressing,  it  had  been 
stuffed  inside. 

Of  all  actresses,  Mrs.  Kendal  excepted,  perhaps  Miss 
Terry  is  the  readiest.  When  on  tour  with  my  lecture 
entertainments  I  have  more  than  once  found  myself  in 
the  same  hotel  as  my  friends,  Sir  Henry  Irving  and  Miss 
Ellen  Terry,  so  we  foregathered  a  good  deal,  and  I  have 
many  agreeable  reminiscences  of  those  pleasant  days  "  on 
the  road." 

I  am  reminded  of  one  dinner  in  particular  by  turning 
up  a  letter  from  Miss  Terry  in  which  she  writes,  "  How 
funny  you  are  to  remember  about  the  coffee  !  Now  I 
remember  it !  "  Shall  I  ever  forget  it !  It  was  in  the 
Windsor  Hotel  in  Glasgow.  Miss  Terry  invited  me  to 
dinner  at  the  actors'  hour — four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
It  is  the  lecturers'  hour  also,  for  later  dinners  are  fatal 


ART  ON  THE  STAGE 


243 


to  any  one  having  to  talk  from  stage  or  platform  for  a 
considerable  time,  beginning  at  eight  o'clock. 
After  our  late  lunch  or  early  dinner,  or  whatever  one 


FALSTAFF'S  OTHER  BOOT. 

cares  to  call  such  a  meal,  a  patent  coffee-maker  was  pro- 
duced, but  no  methylated  spirit  was  to  be  found. 

"  Ring  for  some !  Nonsense,  I  am  a  woman  of 
resource,"  said  our  hostess.  "  See,  I'll  make  the  coffee 
boil  by  matches  alone,"  and  so  she  did — it  took  twenty 
minutes  or  more,  but  during  that  time  Miss  Terry  became 


244  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

so  delightfully  excited  with  her  self-imposed  task,  so 
merry  and  vivacious  that  had  such  a  scene  taken  place 
on  the  stage,  it  would  have  proved  one  of  her  greatest 
triumphs.  She  danced  and  jumped  about,  and  sat  on 
the  floor  to  watch,  and  on  the  sofa  to  cheer,  and  ran 
about  for  more  boxes  of  matches,  and  eventually  poured 
coffee  out  to  the  tune  of  the  "  Conquering  hero  comes." 
Norman  Craig  was  busy  making  those  property  books  he, 
as  the  young  poet,  later  in  the  day,  flung  about  in  that 
charming  comedy  Nance  Oldfield.  In  fact,  Miss  Terry 
was  Nance  in  real  life  in  that  coffee-brewing  scene,  and 
possibly  just  engaged  in  doing  what  Nance  Oldfield  would 
have  done  under  similar  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BOHEMIANS    IN    PARLIAMENT 

Young  Disraeli,  dramatist — Authors  in  the  Commons — The  Dogman 
and  the  Grand  Old  Man — Dr.  Wallace's  entertainment — Lays 
of  Parliament — T.  H.  Bolton  and  the  Theatre — Dr.  Kenealy 
— Henniker  Heaton— Charles  Bradlaugh— H.H.H.— Sketches— A 
photographer — "  Chalk  Talks  " — Labouchere  and  the  Ladies 

WHEN  I  first  knew  the  House  forty  years  ago  it  was 
familiarly  called  "  The  Best  Club  in  London,"  a  club  in 
the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  signifying  a  meeting-place 
of  those  of  equal  tastes  and  talents.  "  Best "  would 
therefore  qualify  the  club  as  one  of  the  highest  order. 
At  that  time,  waiving  a  few  exceptions,  its  members 
were  socially  representative  men,  and  the  few  eccentric 
or  Bohemian  members  were  also  of  a  higher  class  than 
those  who  now  constitute  the  conglomeration  of  men 
sent  to  Parliament — who  at  this  present  moment  are 
starting  an  agitation  for  higher  pay ! 

For  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  I  enjoyed  a  privilege 
granted  to  no  other  pressman  before  or  since,  consisting 
of  a  special  order,  signed  by  the  Lord  Great  Chamberlain, 
giving  me  permission  to  go  wherever  and  whenever  I 
wished  in  the  Palace  of  Westminster — purely,  of  course, 
for  the  purpose  of  my  work — a  privilege,  I  need  hardly 
add,  which  I  enjoyed  to  the  utmost. 

245 


246 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


Until  1880  I  was  an  ordinary  spectator  of  Parliament, 
and  at  a  very  early  age  I  frequently  sat  in  the  Strangers' 
Gallery,  little  dreaming  that  in  time  I  should  be  so 
closely  identified  with  its  doings.  The  one  member 
who  attracted  me  more  than  any  other  was  Disraeli; 
there  was  a  mysterious  fascination  in  his  wonderful 

personality,  though  he  was 
then  enjoying  his  "  peace 
with  honour"  and  gradually 
retiring  from  what  Gladstone 
called  "  practical  politics." 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  as  young 
Disraeli,  might  certainly  be 
claimed  as  a  Bohemian.  He 
not  only  wrote  essays  and 
stories  many  years  before  he 
tackled  his  famous  novels,  but 
he  also  tried  his  hand  at 
writing  plays. 

The  great  Disraeli  was  once 
called  before  the  curtain — "  a 
call  was  raised  for  the  author, 
but  this  compliment  was 
understood  to  be  of  rather 
an  ironical  kind."  Yes, 
Benjamin  Disraeli,  so  late  as 
June  29th,  1868,  appeared  as  a  dramatist.  The  piece 
was  The  Tragedy  of  Count  Alarcos^  first  published 
thirty  years  previously  (1839),  a^ter  Mr.  Disraeli  had 
enjoyed  solitary  travel  in  the  inspiring  region  of  Spain, 
and  had  conceived  himself  to  be  a  poet,  and  laid  out 
the  ground  plan  of  a  tragedy.  "  That"  he  wrote,  in 
his  preface  to  the  play,  "  was  the  season  of  my  life 


YOUNG   DISRAELI    AS   A 
DRAMATIST. 


BOHEMIANS   IN  PARLIAMENT  247 

when  the  heart  is  quick  with  emotion  and  the  brain 
with  creative  fire  ;  when  the  eye  is  haunted  with  beauti- 
ful sights,  and  the  ear  with  sweet  sounds ;  when  we 
live  in  reveries  of  magnificent  performance,  and  the 
future  seems  only  a  perennial  flow  of  poetic  invention. 
Dreams  of  fantastic  youth !  Amid  the  stern  realities  of 
existence  I  have  unexpectedly  achieved  a  long-lost 
purpose." 

Alarcos  was  a  catchpenny  speculation  of  Astley's,  a 
terrible  fiasco,  and  I  fear  only  brought  Disraeli  into 
ridicule.  The  young  author  appeared  and  to  his  astonish- 
ment met  with  a  most  hostile  reception.  He  quickly 
disappeared,  and  so  did  the  play.  He  was  more  successful 
later  on  in  life — in  the  political  theatre  at  the  other  side 
of  Westminster  Bridge. 

The  Bohemian  spirit  suits  neither  of  the  Houses  of 
Parliament.  Literary  men  and  actors  are  ever  anxious 
to  shine  as  politicians — their  ambition  is  to  show  the 
"  ordinary  members,"  one  by  his  matter  and  the 
other  by  his  manner  of  elocution,  "  how  to  do  it." 
Actors  have  never  got  further  than  announcing 
their  determination  to  leave  the  stage  for  the  political 
arena. 

Sir  George  Alexander  was  the  last  actor,  I  believe,  to 
declare  this  intention,  but  had  he  lived  to  fulfil  his  am- 
bition I  fear  the  parliamentary  routine  would  have 
effectually  damped  his  ardour. 

Justin  McCarthy  records  the  fact  that  the  author  of 
Sam  Slick,  a  humorist  of  the  first  water,  was  simply  made 
ridiculous  in  Parliament  by  no  less  a  person  than  Mr. 
Gladstone,  who  was  supposed  to  be  void  of  humour.  The 
delightful  writer  of  books  for  children  sat  in  the  House  of 
Commons  as  Knatchbull-Hugessen  and  afterwards  in  the 


248  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

House  of  Lords  as  Lord  Braybourne,  though  he  filled 
certain  offices  of  state  anything  but  effectively,  and 
"  gave  the  idea  of  one  who  had  been  sentenced  to 
imprisonment  in  the  House  for  some  offence  of  which 
he  was  not  guilty." 

In  more  modern  times  that  fascinating  author,  A.  E.  W. 
Mason,  represented  Coventry  for  some  years.  He  evidently 
found  the  House  equally  depressing,  almost  as  depressing 
as  the  House  found  another  clever  writer,  Sir  Gilbert 
Parker.  On  the  other  hand  the  Irish  party  included 
many  brilliant  Bohemians,  who  were  equally  brilliant 
with  their  pen.  Dealing  with  Bohemianism  in  Parliament 
one  has,  with  few  exceptions,  to  confine  the  subject  to 
the  Irish  benches. 

Membership,  to  a  great  extent,  has  become  a  trade, 
and  political  tradesmen  were  practically  unheard-of  in  the 
days  to  which  I  am  now  referring.  On  looking  back  I 
recall  many  interesting  characters ;  then  the  Irish 
"  obstruction  "  tactics  were  invented  by  an  extraordinary 
yet  popular  character,  Joseph  Gillis  Biggar  by  name,  a 
hunchback  pork-merchant  with  a  rasping  voice  who 
carried  obstruction  to  such  a  pitch  that  on  one  occasion 
the  House  sat  continuously  for  forty-one  and  a  half  hours. 
Another  peculiar  member  was  the  respectable  old  Radical 
Peter  Rylands,  who  on  one  occasion — an  "  all  night 
sitting  " — rolled  himself  up  on  a  long  couch  to  rest  in 
the  outer  corridor  directly  under  Ward's  fresco  painting 
of  "  The  last  sleep  of  Argyle,"  and  some  young  members 
of  Bohemian  inclinations  took  off  the  sleeper's  boots,  and 
hid  them  away.  And  I  remember  how  the  enraged 
Peter,  when  the  division  bell  aroused  him,  ran  through 
the  cold  stone  lobbies  and  sat  in  the  House  in  white- 
stockinged  feet  for  the  rest  of  that  celebrated  night. 


BOHEMIANS  IN  PARLIAMENT  249 

There  was  also  John  Henry  Maclure,  known  as  the 
Whitehead  Torpedo,  a  fine,  handsome,  John  Bullish, 
Manchester  man  with  a  rubicund  face  and  a  mass  of  white 
hair,  who  was  for  years  the  most  typical  Bohemian  in 
Parliament. 

But  the  member  for  Rotherhithe,  Cumming  Macdona, 
and  a  member  of  the  Garrick  Club,  was  an  out-and-out 
Bohemian;  he  was  originally  in  the  Church,  and  was 
known  all  through  the  country  as  "  Macdona  the  Dog- 
man,"  having  introduced  pedigree  Newfoundland  dogs 
into  England.  In  a  garden  of  West  Kirby  in  Cheshire 
where  he  had  a  house  was  a  dog  cemetery  with 
rough  tombstones  inscribed  with  the  names  of  his  most 
famous  dogs.  From  West  Kirby  he  was  summoned  to 
Hawarden  to  see  the  Premier  about  a  living  at  Cheadle. 
He  was  terribly  nervous  in  the  presence  of  the  Grand  Old 
Man,  but  it  so  happened  a  dog  barked  at  the  visitor,  and 
Macdona  made  some  doggy  remarks  that  were  new  to 
Gladstone.  This  set  Gladstone  talking  about  dogs 
until  he  had  to  return  to  his  study,  when  he  shook  the 
Rev.  Cumming  Macdona  by  the  hand,  assuring  him 
that  he  was  the  best-informed  man  he  had  met  for 
many  a  day !  Macdona  was  the  first  clergyman  to  take 
advantage  of  the  Church  Disabilities  Bill  and  leave  the 
pulpit  for  politics. 

Scotland  has  sent  more  than  one  genuine  Bohemian  to 
Parliament ;  perhaps  the  most  entertaining  of  the  lot 
was  Dr.  Wallace,  ex-editor  of  The  Scotsman,  who  on  one 
notable  occasion  during  the  debate  on  the  first  Home 
Rule  Bill  kept  the  House  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter.  His 
humour  was  continuous  for  two  afternoons  and  his  satire 
appreciated  by  every  one  except  Labouchere.  For  some 
reason  Dr.  Wallace  bombarded  the  member  for  North- 


250 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


ampton  with  his  wit :  the  fact  that  Labby  had  just  changed 
his  opinion  regarding  Home  Rule  might  have  been  the 
cause.  The  Doctor  amused  the  House  by  declaring  that 
"  time  was  too  precious  to  investigate  the  psychology  of 
the  parliamentary  tee-to-tum."  This  great  effort  was 
more  of  an  entertainment  than  an  entertaining  speech, 
and  was  really  more  suited  for  Bohemia  than  Parliament. 
The  genial  member  of  the  Savage  Club,  William  Woodall, 
who  sat  for  Hanley,  was  one  of  the  most  popular 


WILLIAM  WOODALL'S  GUESTS  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

Bohemian  M.P.s  in  the  eighties.  His  little  dinners  in 
the  House,  which  comprised  all  kinds  of  interesting  public 
men,  and  more  particularly  public  women,  were  unique. 
Though  a  strong  supporter  of  Gladstone  and  a  member 
of  his  Ministry  to  boot,  there  was  nothing  orthodox  about 
him.  Being  a  champion  of  Female  Suffrage,  he  numbered 
among  his  friends  its  strong  supporters,  including  the 
fascinating  Mrs.  Fawcett  and  many  others  interested  in 
the  movement,  together  with  a  representative  sprinkling 
of  lady  journalists  and  authoresses,  Marie  Corelli  for  in- 
stance. Bewitching  actresses  too,  who,  if  deterred  by 


BOHEMIANS   IN  PARLIAMENT 


251 


their  profession  from   dinner-parties,  enjoyed  tea- parties 

on  the  Terrace.     Then   I   recall  his  famous   Sandwich 

Soirees,  held  at  Queen  Anne's  Mansions ;  his  smoking 

concerts,  at  which  many  Members  of  Parliament  and 

Bohemians  from  the  Savage  Club  and  others  assembled, 

were    the    best    of    their    kind    in 

London.     I    remember   at   one    of 

the     gatherings      Mr.     Gladstone 

was  so  intensely  interested   in  the 

card  tricks  of  Charles  Bertram  the 

conjurer    that    the    old    politician 

sat  on  the   floor   so   as   to  keep  a 

close   watch   on   the    manipulation 

and  to  try  to   detect,   if   possible, 

how  the  tricks  were  done. 

In  the  eighties  there  was  a 
picturesque  but  erratic  Bohemian 
Member  of  Parliament  of  the  name 
of  Atkinson,  who  represented 
Boston.  He  was  conspicuous  for 
his  flowing  white  hair,  his  white 
waistcoat,  his  carelessly-tied  salmon- 
colour  neckcloth,  and  his  very 
careless  observance  of  the  rules  of 
debate.  He  figured  as  one  of  the 
bores  of  the  House,  and  as  such 
was  fair  game  for  both  members  and  pressmen.  To 
retaliate  upon  those  who  satirised  him  in  the  press 
he  gave  dinners  in  the  House  to  any  members  that  could 
be  collected  and  invited  the  men  on  whom  he  wished 
to  be  revenged. 

For  this  purpose  he  wrote  some  "  Lays  of  Parliament," 
and  had  the  doggerel  neatly  printed. 


FARMER   ATKINSON. 


252  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Henry  Labouchere,  editor  and   proprietor  of   Truth, 
was  his  first  victim  : 


Oh  !  Labby,  it  is  sweet  to  read 
The  Truth  that  from  thee  flows. 

But  oft  it  seems  a  noxious  weed : 
One  wonders  where  it  grows. 

One  thinks  upon  the  early  days, 
When  strangers  and  colleagues 

Wished  to  be  able  thee  to  praise 
For  labours  and  fatigues. 

But  it  was  awful  to  be  told 
That  when  thy  chief  enquired 

Why  he  and  all  the  staff  were  sold, 
By  work  (not  done)  required. 

Thou  wentest  into  his  Bureau, 
And,  asked  Why  nothing  done  ? 

Said,  "  I  came  here  to  make  a  row, 
And  pleasure  only  own." 

I  fear,  alas,  that  is  thy  role, 

And  always  will  be  so ; 
Thou  hast  no  heart,  thou  hast  no  soul, 

Away  then  must  thou  go. 

No  power  in  Parliament  art  thou, 

No  leader  e'en  of  few ; 
Thou  mightest  just  as  well  bow-wow, 

Or  melancholy  mew. 

We  will  not  let  thee  lead  at  all, 
Nor  write  a  word  of  "  Truth  "  ; 

Thou'lt  useless  live,  now,  as  of  old, 
Just  like  thy  early  youth. 


BOHEMIANS  IN  PARLIAMENT  353 

Go  to  thy  dolls,  and  dress  some  more ; 

More  infidels  protect ; 
We'll  give  thee  up,  and  evermore 

Thou  and  thy  "  Truth  "  neglect. 

Done  by  LYRE,  at  the  bottom  of  a  well  (but  not  well  done). 

HENRY    LABYRINTH,   JUNIOR, 

AT  THE  *  MAKE,  HOLLAND, 
This  2jtb  day  of  July,  1891. 

*  Query. — Should  it  not  read  "  MAZE  "  ? 
The  printer's  devil  will  be  amazed  if  it  does  not. 

I  was  the  intended  second  target  of  his  wit.  The 
dinner  was  arranged,  the  verses  written  and  printed,  the 
guests  invited.  However,  an  hour  or  two  before  the 
appointed  time,  as  I  sat  in  the  Press  Gallery  (without  any 
intention  of  being  present  at  the  dinner  given  in  my 
"  honour  "),  I  had  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  a  "  scene  " 
in  the  House  between  the  Speaker  and  the  same  member, 
which  ended  in  "  Farmer  "  Atkinson  being  expelled  the 
House  !  A  note  was  sent  up  to  me  that  the  dinner,  in 
view  of  the  recent  occurrence,  would  take  place  at  a 
club.  I  heard  afterwards  that  this  erratic  member's 
overcoat  was  found  in  the  Members'  Cloakroom,  and  a 
bundle  of  notes,  I  believe  amounting  to  a  large  sum  of 
thousands  of  pounds,  discovered  unprotected  in  an  outer 
pocket. 

T.  H.  Bolton,  a  London  solicitor,  who  posed  as  the 
Great  Napoleon,  whom  he  somewhat  resembled  in  face 
and  figure,  but  was  known  at  the  Garrick  Club  as 
"  Solomon  Pell,"  was  for  years  a  familiar  and  hard- 
working Bohemian  member.  He  gave  up  much  of  his 
time  to  members  of  the  theatrical  profession  and  acted 


254 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


as  an  Honorary  Solicitor  to  their  associations ;  I  have 
frequently  seen  him  in  a  corner  of  the  Outer  Lobby  of  the 
House,  giving  legal  advice  to  a  bunch  of  beautiful 
theatrical  ladies,  and  then  seen  him  rush  into  the  House 
to  make  a  fighting  speech  on  his  famous  subject  of  the 
Tithes  Bill.  He  ended  his  days  as  a  Taxing  Master  in 
Chancery. 

Professor    Rogers,    a    learned,    big,    rough,    uncouth, 
coarse-tongued  man,  affected  the    ultra-Bohemian  style 


BOLTON    AND   HIS   THEATRICAL   CLIENTS. 

in  dress  and  address.  In  drawing  him  for  Punch  I 
depicted  him  giving  "  a  classic  tone  to  conversation  " — 
conversation,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  more  fitted  for  the 
lowest  Bohemian  than  the  House  of  Commons. 

I  suppose  the  name  of  Lord  Henry  Lennox  should  be 
included  among  Parliamentary  Bohemians,  though  he  was 
better  known  to  the  public  in  theatrical  matters  as  a 
hanger-on  of  the  old  Gaiety,  and  also  a  frequenter  of  the 
music-halls  of  the  period.  In  the  House  of  Commons 


BOHEMIANS   IN  PARLIAMENT 


255 


he  seemed  out  of  place;  he  wandered  about  from  one 
bar  to  the  other,  and  looked  upon  pressmen  in  Parliament 
with  distrust.  He  resented  "Lobbying,"  that  is,  pressmen 
mixing  with  the  members  to  gather  special  information 
or  notes  for  personal  descriptions  of  legislators.  Mr.  Moy 
Thomas  recalls  the  fact  that  as  Lord  Henry  was  taking 
some  refreshment  at  the  bar  then 
situated  in  the  Inner  Lobby,  he 
turned  to  a  representative  of  the 
press  and  snappishly  remarked, 
"  There,  make  a  note  of  that ! 
Publish  the  fact  that  I  have  had  a 
glass  of  wine  !  " 

"  Well,  I  certainly  would  if  I  saw 
your  Lordship  drink  a  glass  of 
water." 

I  have  to  go  back  to  the  time  I 
was  a  visitor  and  not  on  business 
bent  in  the  House,  to  recall  the 
most  notorious  Bohemian  member. 
That  was  the  celebrated  Kenealy. 
Dr.  Kenealy  was  at  one  time  the 
most-talked-of  man  in  England — a 
LORD  HENRY  LENNOX.  barrister  made  famous  by  defending 
the  "  claimant "  in  the  Tichborne 
trial.  At  the  Bar  he  was  simply  treated  with  obloquy, 
in  Parliament  he  was  laughed  at.  It  was  the  latter  hit 
the  harder. 

The  historians  of  his  time  refer  to  Dr.  Kenealy  as  "  a 
social  pariah  and  a  legal  outcaste."  "  The  Borough  of 
Stoke-upon-Trent,  which  had  hitherto  been  considered 
a  respectable  and  intelligent  constituency,  raked  among 
the  dung-hill  of  lost  reputations,  and  selected  as  their 


356  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

representative  one  who  rejoiced  in  the  distinction  of 
being  '  the  most  unscrupulous  maligner  of  his  day.' " 
Yet  as  a  young  man  he  was  one  of  the  most  famous 
in  literature,  a  scholar  and  a  poet ;  most  refined  and 
tender  verse  emanated  from  his  pen. 

When  the  newly-elected  member  entered  the  House, 
he  stood  at  the  table,  amid  the  laughter  of  the  House, 
alone.  "  I  have  to  point  out,"  said  the  Speaker,  "  that 
according  to  the  usual  practice  of  this  House,  when  an 
honourable  member  appears  for  the  first  time  in  the 
House,  it  is  customary  that  he  should  be  introduced 
by  two  members.  I  now  ask  whether  there  are  two 
members  of  the  House  prepared  to  act  as  sponsors."  To 
the  consternation  of  the  House  John  Bright  rose  and 
said  that  he  would,  out  of  deference  to  the  will  of  the  large 
constituency  that  had  elected  Dr.  Kenealy.  And  he 
thus  accompanied  the  doctor  to  the  table.  It  was  one 
of  the  most  dramatic  incidents  in  the  history  of  Parlia- 
ment. 

Sir  John  Puleston,  although  "  Constable  of  Conway 
Castle,"  was  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and,  as  befitted 
an  old  medical  student,  a  thorough-going  Bohemian  and 
never  so  happy  as  when  entertaining  journalists,  artists, 
and  actors  either  in  the  House  or  in  the  Castle. 

Henniker  Heaton,  the  originator  of  the  Penny  Post, 
was  a  colonial,  originally  a  newspaper  advertising  man  in 
Australia,  and,  like  Sir  John  Puleston,  fond  of  Bohemianism. 
All  of  these  felt  for  him  when  he  received  a  terrible  snub 
from  the  Postmaster-General  he  was  continually  baiting 
in  those  days — Mr.  Raikes.  Heaton  wanted  to  know  if 
the  Postmaster-General  had  consulted  advertising  agents 
with  regard  to  the  revenue  which  would  accrue  from  the 
advertising  on  the  back  of  telegram  forms.  "  No,  sir, 


BOHEMIANS  IN  PARLIAMENT 


257 


I  have  not.  The  fact  is,  it  does  not  appear  to  be  so 
much  a  question  of  advertising  agents  as  of  advertising 
politicians." 

Raikes  was  Postmaster-General  at  the  time  the  Post 
Office  jubilee  took  place.  He  was  very  unpopular, 
particularly  with  the  men,  and  I  designed  a  parody  of 
the  celebrated  Maclise  envelope  in  their  favour,  which, 
signed,  sold  for  half  a  sovereign  each,  and  I  believe  is 
now  nearly  as  rare  as 
the  original. 

I  had  just  begun 
my  attendance  on  the 
Houses  of  Parliament 
as  the  artist  repre- 
sentative of  Mr.  Punch, 
when  Bradlaugh — per- 
haps  the  most 
Bohemian  of  all 
members,  began  his 
dramatic  career  in  the 
Commons.  My  pencil 
was  at  once  busy,  and 
after  Gladstone,  Har- 
court,  and  Churchill,  I  sketched  and  caricatured  Bradlaugh 
more  often  than  any  other  Member  of  Parliament.  He 
was  not  a  member  for  a  long  time.  It  was  his  furious 
efforts  to  take  his  seat  that  gave  me  the  greater  part  of  my 
material,  which  I  used  not  only  in  Punch  but  in  other 
papers  and  also  in  Vanity  Fair.  This  remarkable  man, 
originally  a  ranker  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  was  endowed 
with  a  wonderful  voice,  which  reverberated  throughout 
the  House.  I  sketched  him  orating  at  the  bar  of  the 
House.  The  bar  is  a  long  brass  rod,  which  pulls  out  like  a 
'7 


"  Old  Dadd  v  Longlega  wouldn't  say  Ids  prayers 
Take  him,  Black  Beadle,  and  chuck  him  down- 
stairs," 


258 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


telescope  across  the  gangway  inside  the  House ;  any  one 
standing  outside  the  bar  is  technically  not  in  the  House. 
I  sketched  him  being  dragged  out  of  the  House,  literally 
kicked  down  the  stairs  and  flung  with  his  clothes  torn  to 
pieces  into  the  Palace  Yard.  I  sketched  his  fight  again 
and  again  over  the  five  long  years  it  lasted,  and  I  have 


BRADLAUGH   FLUNG  INTO  THE  PALACE  YARD. 

sketched  him  when  he  proved  himself  one  of  the  hardest- 
working  and  most  respected  of  members. 

The  most  intellectual  members  in  my  days  were  the 
most  Bohemian.  Professor  Rogers  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, but  not  Sir  Henry  Hoyes  Howorth — "  H.  H.  H.  of 
The  Times  " — who  for  a  long  while  contributed  under 
those  familiar  initials  some  of  the  most  learned  and 
delightful  letters.  He  was  in  appearance — and  I  trust 


BOHEMIANS  IN  PARLIAMENT 


259 


I  am  not  wrong  in  saying,  by  inclination — a  Bohemian. 
To  artists  a  three-H  pencil  represents  extreme  hard- 
ness :  but  in  this  particular  case  three-H  applied  to  a 
politician  meant  the  opposite — genial,  soft-tongued,  and 
unconventionally  entertaining. 

Strange  to  say  there  was  another  Sir  Henry  who,  like 
Sir  H.  H.  Howorth, 
hailed  from  Manchester 
way.  He  was  equally 
popular  in  Parliament — 
the  celebrated  scientist, 
Sir  Henry  Roscoe.  I 
remember  him  one  day 
scaring  the  frequenters 
of  the  Inner  Lobby,  both 
members  and  pressmen, 
by  showing  round  a  long 
glass  tube  containing 
deadly  microbes,  sup- 
posed to  have  been  ex- 
tracted from  the  air 
entering  the  House. 
Descriptive  writers  fled, 
and  the  professor  was 
not  troubled  by  the 
lobbyists  that  afternoon. 

Sir  Charles  Dilke's 
connection  with  the  press,  and  also  his  delightful  little 
dinners,  marked  him  out  as  a  Bohemian.  He  was  also 
one  of  the  best-informed  men  who  ever  sat  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  was  intellectually  head  and  shoulders  above 
the  highly  respectable  mediocrities  who  predominated. 

The  Right  Hon.  James  Lowther,  familiarly  known  to 


"  H.   H.   H." 


260  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

all  as  "  Jimmy  Lowther,"  was  for  many  years  popular 
on  both  sides  of  the  House,  even  with  the  Home  Rulers 
when  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland  :  but  then  he  was  a 
keen  sportsman,  and  the  Irish  dearly  love  a  racing  man, 
and  also  it  was  impossible  to  raise  his  temper  by  heckling 
him  on  Irish  topics  in  the  House. 

Although  many  journalists  become  M.P.s  no  artists 
aspire  to  that  honour,  though  many  attend  the  House  for 
business  purposes,  and  take  as  keen  an  interest  in  politics, 
both  inside  of  St.  Stephen's  and  out  of  it,  as  journalists 
do.  True  we  have  had  a  sprinkling  of  amateurs.  Sir 
Frank  Lockwood  was  quite  a  capable  caricaturist,  and  so, 
I  believe,  was  Colonel  Saunderson  ;  while,  if  we  can  call 
photography  an  art,  there  was  that  energetic  and  highly 
successful  snapshotter,  Sir  J.  Benjamin  Stone.  The  Pall 
Mall  referred  to  him  as  follows :  "  His  passion  for  photo- 
graphy, which  had  the  appearance,  at  first,  of  a  harmless 
little  fad,  is  now  recognised  as  a  mark  of  systematic  fore- 
sight. Sir  Benjamin  was  the  first  to  realise,  in  a  serious 
way,  the  great  service  which  the  camera  might  render 
to  the  fullness  and  accuracy  of  history."  Sir  Benjamin 
photographed  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  but  if  I  may 
be  pardoned  the  joke,  he  laid  the  foundation  stone  of  his 
reputation  in  that  world  by  his  work  in  the  Commons. 

When  I  wrote  that  no  artists  aspire  to  parliamentary 
honours,  I  forgot  Sir  John  William  Benn,  who  was 
Member  for  Devonport.  When  I  first  saw  him  he  was 
occupying  the  platform  at  the  Birkbeck  Institute ;  supplied 
with  coloured  chalks  and  a  large  roll  of  paper,  he  made 
rapid  sketches  of  Dickensian  characters,  and  spoke  in 
between.  However,  he  soon  dropped  what  is  termed 
by  Americans  "  chalk  talks,"  and  merely  talked,  and  that 
to  some  purpose,  for  he  talked  himself  into  the  House 


BOHEMIANS   IN  PARLIAMENT 


261 


of  Commons,  then  out  of  it,  and  then  back  again.  He 
was  very  successful  on  the  London  School  Board,  where 
no  doubt  around  him  he  found  plenty  of  character  worthy 
of  Dickens. 

Perhaps  Henry  Labouchere  was  the  most  typical 
Bohemian,  never 
conventional,  never 
orthodox,  fre- 
quently using  the 
House  as  the  dog 
upon  which  to  try 
some  new  departure 
of  his  in  public 
affairs.  His  excur- 
sions into  debate 
were  seldom  taken 
very  seriously ;  in 
fact,  Labouchere 
never  intended 
them  to  be,  they 
were  simply  "  good 
copy  "  for  the  bene- 
fit of  his  next  issue 
of  Truth.  One  day 
there  was  a  serious 
debate  upon  women 
being  eligible  as  Members  of  Parliament.  When  it  came 
to  Mr.  Labouchere's  turn  to  speak,  he  drew  a  picture  of 
ladies  sitting  sandwiched  between  the  other  members  on 
the  benches  of  the  House.  "  He  was  an  old  man,"  he  said, 
"  it  would  not  affect  him."  He  was  speaking  out  of 
sympathy  for  the  young  men  in  that  House.  He  would 
not  willingly  submit  them  to  such  a  temptation  (laughter). 


SIR   BENJAMIN   STONE. 


262  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

If  there  was  a  beautiful  lady  on  each  side  of  a  young  man 
urging  him  to  vote  on  some  private  Bill — and  saying, 
"  Oh,  do  vote  for  this  " — he  was  afraid  the  member 
would  succumb  (laughter}.  He  wished  to  prevent  as  far 
as  possible  any  such  risk. 

He  wished  to  guard  against  the  dangers  which  would 
arise  from  the  adoption  of  this  resolution.  When  a  woman 
had  got  an  idea  into  her  head  you  could  not  knock  it  out. 
You  explained  to  her  that  she  was  in  the  wrong.  Instead 
of  answering  she  simply  repeated  what  she  had  said 
before  (laughter).  It  was  urged  that  she  would  develop 
if  she  had  a  vote.  Darwin  told  us  that  we  had  sprung 
from  worms :  how  long  had  it  taken  any  member  present 
to  develop  from  a  worm  ?  Millions  of  years.  We 
should  not  give  votes  to  women  for  millions  of  years, 
while  they  developed  (laughter). 

One  must  mention  another  journalist  and  equally  clever 
member,  Thomas  Gibson  Bowles.  Unlike  Labouchere, 
his  interruptions  in  the  House  were  always  to  the  point, 
exceedingly  well  thought-out,  and  witty,  and  also 
contained  most  useful  criticism.  Some  men  jump 
suddenly  out  of  professional  life  on  to  the  Govern- 
ment bench  without  any  preparation  or  any  idea  of 
Parliamentary  procedure?  and  thereby  add  to  the  hilarity 
of  the  members.  The  most  notable  case  in  my  time  in 
Parliament  was  Rigby,  a  famous  advocate,  afterwards 
Lord  Rigby.  He  was  transplanted  from  the  bench  to 
the  table  without  any  experience  of  Parliamentary  speak- 
ing or  usages,  and  he  could  not  accustom  himself  to  stand- 
ing at  the  side  of  the  box,  where  all  must  stand,  but 
invariably — amidst  roars  of  laughter  from  all  sides  of  the 
House — gradually  worked  his  way  round  and  stood  in 
front  of  it,  thereby  flagrantly  transgressing  the  traditions 


BOHEMIANS  IN  PARLIAMENT  263 

and  rules  of  debate.  At  the  same  time  he  would  shift 
the  lapels  of  his  coat  as  if  it  were  his  gown,  and  he  almost 
called  the  smiling  Speaker  "  my  lud." 

There  were  a  score  or  more  Bohemians  in  Parliament 
in  those  days,  splendid  characters  I  regret  I  have  not 
space  to  deal  with,  including  William  Allen,  "  the  Gates- 
head  Giant,"  and  the  oracle  from  Newcastle,  Joseph 
Cowen. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SOME    PARLIAMENTARY    OFFICIALS    AND    SOME    NOBLE    LORDS 

Some  Speakers— Captain  Gossett— The  "  Black  Beetle  "—The  Chaplain 
—The  Rev.  F.  E.  C.  Byng— Dr.  Percy— Some  Lord  Chancellors- 
Sir  William  Harcourt — The  Black  Rod — Lord  Clanricarde — Lord 
Courtney — Lord  Dunraven 

IT  may  be  safely  assumed  that  no  man  ever  entered 
Parliament  with  the  fixed  idea  of  becoming  Speaker. 
Lord  Hampton  was  a  Whip,  and  therefore  not  much  in 
the  House  itself.  Lord  Peel  was  almost  a  silent  member. 
Gully  was  practically  unknown.  The  present  Speaker 
certainly  won  his  position  as  a  capable  and  popular  Chair- 
man of  Committees,  which  after  all  should  be  the  stepping 
stone  to  the  Chair,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  not ; 
yet  he  could  never  have  dreamt  of  becoming  Speaker 
when  he  entered  Parliament,  or  he  would,  in  lieu  of  wear- 
ing a  wig,  have  shaved  off  his  beard  and  moustache. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  Lord  Peel.  The  House,  in 
both  cases,  was  so  determined  to  have  these  two  gentlemen 
to  preside  over  it,  that  it  accepted  them  beards  and  all, 
which  is  the  highest  tribute  to  their  popularity. 

The  Speakership  of  the  House  of  Commons  is  thought 
more  of  than  even  the  Lord  Chancellorship,  for  the 
Speaker  is  an  absolute  autocrat ;  every  member  has  to 
"  catch  his  eye "  and  address  everything  to  him ;  he  is 

264 


26$ 


266 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


under  the  Speaker's  thumb  when  the  House  is  sitting. 
The  Lord  Chancellor  on  the  Woolsack  is  practically 
ignored;  his  power  is  felt  outside  the  debating 
chamber. 

It  is  strange  that  at  the  time  the  members  were  staid 
and  proportionately  dull,  the  officials  of  the  House  were 
by  comparison  Bohemian.  Brand,  the  Speaker,  was  a 
genial  sportsman ;  the  Sergeant-at-Arms  was  an  old  Navy 
man  (Captain  Gossett),  who,  whatever  he  may  have  been 
in  the  House,  was  out  of  it  a  jolly  old  sort.  He  was  a 

little  round  man,  rather  bent, 
with  a  merry  face  and  somewhat 
bowed  short  legs.  As  Sergeant 
he  wore  the  official  black  Court 
dress,  cutaway  coat,  knee  breeches, 
and  black  silk  stockings.  His 
back  view  strongly  resembled  a 
black  beetle,  and  as  such  I  always 
depicted  him  in  Punch. 

His  private  room  on  the  first 
floor,  leading  out  of  the  Lobby, 
he  made  into  a  club-room,  to 
which  he  invited  certain  members 
who  were  good  fellows,  irrespective  of  politics,  from 
both  sides  in  Parliament.  They  became  "  members  of 
Gossett's  room."  Tremendous  decanters  of  whisky  and 
boxes  of  cigars  were  provided  by  members,  for  the 
benefit  of  all.  I  was  a  member  and  enjoyed  many  a 
pleasant  hour.  The  Sergeant  had  all  my  caricatures  of 
him,  which  I  had  drawn  for  Punch,  cut  out,  and  stuck  round 
the  mantelpiece ;  all  the  choice  spirits — I  do  not  mean 
in  the  decanters,  but  of  the  House — were  members  of 
the  room.  Gossett's  successor  did  away  with  such  tokens 


THE  BLACK   BEETLE. 


SOME  PARLIAMENTARY  OFFICIALS        267 

of  Bohemianism  and  bound  everything  again  in  the  room 
with  red  tape. 

The  Chaplain  to  the  House  in  those  days,  the  Hon. 
and  Rev.  F.  E.  C.  Byng,  was  another  jolly  Bohemian, 
outside  West- 
minster. His 
little  Bohemian 
suppers  at  his 
club  were  highly 
popular;  Mem- 
bers of  Parlia- 
ment and  actors, 
Sir  Francis 
Burnand  and 
myself  and  other 
Punch  men,  were 
generally  pre- 
sent. Our  host 
had  a  keen  sense 
of  humour.  I 
show  his  signa- 
ture. The  face 
he  has  sketched 
in  the  upper 
part  of  the 
"B"is  really  a 
very  good  por- 
trait of  himself. 
When  my  cari- 
cature of  him  as  Chaplain  to  the  House  appeared  in 
Punchy  he  sent  me  a  sketch  representing  a  coffin,  two 
daggers,  a  death's-head  and  cross-bones,  and  my  initials, 
under  which  he  wrote  "  Take  warning !  " 


THE  CHAPLAIN  TO   THE  HOUSE. 


268 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


Byng  was  afterwards  the  Earl  of  Stratford,  and  Canon 
Wilberforce,  the  ardent  teetotaller,  became  Chaplain  in 
his  stead.  He  was  an  interesting  man,  and  I  have  been  a 
guest  at  his  lunch- parties  in  the  Cloisters  of  the  Abbey ; 
but  it  is  difficult  to  be  jolly  on  lemonade. 

Another  good  old  Bohemian  in  my  early  days  of  Parlia- 
ment was  Dr.  Percy,  the  Engineer-in-Chief  to  the  Houses 


of  Parliament.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Garrick  Club, 
and  after  dinner,  when  he  and  I  returned  to  St. 
Stephen's,  I  often  went  the  rounds  with  him,  in  under- 
ground Parliament.  In  fact,  during  one  of  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's great  speeches,  when  there  was  no  chance  of  a  seat 
anywhere,  Dr.  Percy  allowed  me  to  sit  in  the  table  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  The  table  is  really  a  ventilator 
open  at  the  bottom,  so  that  one  can  sit  inside  and  look 


SOME  PARLIAMENTARY  OFFICIALS        269 

through  the  ornamentation  on  the  sides  close  to  the  front 
benches. 

To  the  ordinary  visitor  on  an  ordinary  day,  the  great 
and  only  salient  feature  of  the  House  of  Lords  that 
attracts  attention  is  the  Lord  Chancellor  on  the  Woolsack. 
As  I  have  said,  the  noble  lords  have  little  to  do  with  him ; 
in  the  House  he  is  just  one  of  themselves,  and  when  he 
wishes  to  make  a  speech  he  has  to  leave  the  Woolsack  and 
move  some  yards  away  from  it,  for  technically  the  Wool- 
sack is  not  in  the  House  at  all. 

Besides  being  "  keeper  of  the  King's  conscience  "  he 
is  maker  of  judges  and  bishops  and  all  sorts  of  officials, 
so  in  legal  circles  it  is  the  most  highly-coveted  post  under 
Government,  and  it  must  be  said  that  when  I  knew 
Westminster  it  was  generally  given  to  the  best  fitted 
lawyer.  Lords  Selborne,  Cairns,  Herschell,  Halsbury, 
and  the  great  Lord  Chancellor,  Lord  Finlay,  attained  to 
their  position  by  reason  of  their  undisputed  ability.  It 
was  never  the  reward  of  mere  party  services,  or  given  to 
shelve  a  disappointed  place-seeker  :  when  certain  promin- 
ent politicians,  who  merely  qualified  by  being  called  to 
the  Bar  in  their  younger  days,  were  mentioned,  their 
ambition  was  not  gratified,  for  jobbery  was  detested. 

It  is  no  secret  that  the  late  Sir  William  Harcourt's 
cherished  ambition  was  to  get  into  the  Upper  House,  not 
as  an  ordinary  Peer,  but  as  the  Lord  Chancellor  of 
England.  But  the  picture  drawn  by  Lord  Randolph 
Churchill,  and  modestly  adopted  by  myself,  showing  the 
House  of  Lords  "  all  Harcourts,"  had  such  an  effect 
upon  those  in  authority  that  the  dream  of  "  Historicus  " 
never  came  to  fruition.  This  drawing  of  mine  in  Punch 
was  referred  to  by  the  late  Lord  Salisbury  in  a  celebrated 
fighting  speech  he  made  in  the  House  of  Lords. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

Perhaps  the  most  Bohemian,  by  that  I  mean  the  most 
unconventional  Lord  Chancellor,  was  the  brilliant  lawyer 
Lord  Buckmaster.  He  was  entertained  at  dinner  by  the 
Garrick  Club — an  unusual  occurrence — and  is  one  of  the 
most  entertaining  members  of  that  club. 

Black  Rod  in  the  House  of  Lords  is  in  the  same  position 
as  the  Sergeant-at-Arms  in  the  House  of  Commons,  only 
he  is  a  person  of  greater  importance.  He  frequently 
walks  straight  into  the  House  of  Commons  in  the  middle 

of  an  important  speech,  and 
summons  the  members  to  the 
Upper  House  on  the  occasion 
of  the  Royal  assent  being 
given  to  the  Bills  which  have 
been  passed. 

In  the  "  good  old  days  "  I 
write  about,  Black  Rod,  like 
the  Sergeant-at-Arms,  was  an 
old  retired  Navy  man,  also 
round  and  bent;  but,  unlike 
my  black  beetle,  he  wore 
trousers.  He  was  an  old 
martinet  and  objected  to  my  sketching  from  my  corner 
under  the  Press  Gallery.  This  Black  Rod's  red-tapeism 
forced  me  to  practise  sketching  in  my  pocket,  with  the 
aid  of  a  short  pencil  and  cards,  and  by  keeping  my 
little  finger  firmly  on  the  side  of  the  card  to  act  as  a 
pivot  to  the  hand.  It  is  quite  as  easy  as  spirit-rapping, 
or  any  other  conjuring  trick,  if  practised  long  enough. 
The  first  sketch  I  thus  made  in  my  pocket  was  of  Black 
Rod  himself.  I  was  standing  right  under  his  nose  at  the 
moment;  Bradlaugh  was  asking  permission  for  a  lady, 
probably  Mrs.  Besant,  to  sit  on  the  seats  behind  the  bar. 


SHOWING  HOW  I   SKETCH   IN 
MY  POCKET. 


SOME  PARLIAMENTARY  OFFICIALS       271 

To  judge  by  appearances  the  members  of  the  House 
of  Lords  are  far  more  Bohemian  than  the  members  of  the 
Commons.  It  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  decide  who  is  a 
Bohemian  and  who  is  not. 

I  suppose  all  poets  are  Bohemians  at  heart,  and  certainly 
Lord  Tennyson  was  one  in  outward  appearance.  When 

he  presented  himself  to 
take  his  seat  in  the  "  Gilded 
Chamber  "  he  lost  his  robes, 
and  a  set  were,  I  believe,  lent 
to  him  for  the  occasion. 

The  Marquess  of  Clanri- 
carde,  "  the  absentee  land- 
lord," who  was  the  cause  of 
so  much  political  friction  and 
the  most  hated  man  in  the 
arena  of  Irish  politics,  lived 
as  a  Bohemian.  I  saw  a 
good  deal  of  him,  as  he 
resided  for  many  months  of 
the  year  in  the  same  sea- 
coast  town  as  I  do.  It  was 
no  common  thing  to  see 
the  noble  lord  walking  home 
after  a  visit  to  the  fish- 
market,  which  was  situated 
a  long  distance  from  his  hotel,  with  fresh  herrings, 
for  which  he  had  driven  a  bargain,  strung  on  to  his 
fingers.  He  was  immensely  rich,  but  miserly  in  his 
ways.  I  have  seen  him  after  dinner  hold  up  to  the 
light  a  small  bottle  which  had  contained  seltzer,  and 
finding  a  small  quantity  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottle, 
call  for  the  cork  and  carefully  screw  it  in,  and  take  it 


LORD   CLANRICARDE,    AN   ODD 
FISH. 


aya 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


up  to  his  room.     He  dressed  terribly,  but  wore  beautiful 
jewellery. 

If  a  rough  exterior,  a  rough  voice,  and  rough  manners 
constitute  a  Bohemian,  then  Lord  Courtney  certainly 
came  under  that  category.  For  years  he  served  in  the 
House  of  Commons  as  Chairman  of  Committee,  that  is, 
he  acted  for  the  Speaker  when  the 
House  was  technically  not  a  House, 
discussing  a  Bill  in  detail. 

Any  one  filling  that  office,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  it  may  be  broad 
daylight,  must  wear  evening  dress. 
Courtney's  evening  dress  would  have 
disgraced  a  super  in  a  travelling 
theatre.  His  everyday  attire  was 
worse,  and  in  the  House  of  Lords 
he  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  at- 
tending garbed  in  rough  tweeds  of 
various  hues  and  of  the  village 
tailor's  cut.  His  bright  yellow  waist- 
coat and  Muller  hat  were  con- 
spicuous. He  was  not  popular  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  and  when 
his  name  was  mentioned  for  the 
Speakership  his  own  side  in  politics 
joined  the  Conservatives  in  voting  a  more 
member  to  that  important  post.  The  Muller  hat  fitted 
him  better  than  the  Speaker's  wig  would  have  done. 

Mention  of  waistcoats  reminds  me  that  the  late  Lord 
Abinger,  a  man  of  a  very  different  stamp,  genial,  accom- 
plished, and  an  aristocrat,  sported  a  terrific  waistcoat  of 
a  draughtboard  pattern,  but,  being  a  finely-made  speci- 
men of  humanity,  he  carried  it  off  well.  From  his  youth 


LORD  COURTNEY. 


popular 


SOME  PARLIAMENTARY  OFFICIALS       273 

Lord  Abinger  had  a  strong  attachment  for  theatrical 
Bohemianism,  and  in  late  years  was  seldom  absent  from 
the  Garrick  Club. 

A  peer  who  has  presided  over  the  Savage  Club  "  wig- 
wam," when  entertaining  the  great  Liberal  chief,  Mr. 
Gladstone,  and  other  celebrities,  must,  I  suppose,  be 
reckoned  a  Bohemian,  and  a  good  one  too !  He  has 
been  a  newspaper  war  correspondent,  a  military  steeple- 
chase rider,  a  yachtsman  who  has  twice  tried  to  wrest 
the  America  Cup  from  the  New  York  Yacht  Club,  and 
an  authority  on  hunting — this  is  the  popular  Earl  of 
Dunraven,  who,  when  addressing  the  House  of  Lords, 
stands  in  an  unconventional  attitude  at  the  cross  benches, 
with  one  knee  on  the  bench — at  least  so  I  have  sketched 
him,  as  if  he  had  the  tiller  in  his  hand  and  was  on  the 
look-out  for  political  squalls. 

Lord  Rathmore,  the  distinguished  scholar,  who  as 
Mr.  David  Plunket  sat  for  many  years  in  the  Commons 
as  member  for  Dublin  University,  one  of  our  greatest 
orators,  is,  I  may  safely  say,  a  Bohemian.  He  never 
appeared  to  take  politics  really  seriously ;  probably  the 
dullness  of  the  Commons  bored  him,  and  only  when 
called  upon  on  great  occasions  to  speak  did  he  wake  up. 

I  well  recollect  a  typical  illustration  of  his  apathy. 
He  was  promoted  to  a  peerage,  and  on  the  evening  that  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords  Sir  Edward  Clarke 
gave,  in  honour  of  the  event,  a  little  private  dinner,  to 
which  I  was  invited.  The  new  peer  came  into  the  room 
and  went  round  the  cards  on  the  table,  but  failed  to  find 
his  own.  He  asked  his  host  where  he  was  to  sit.  "  Why, 
there,  of  course,  on  my  right."  "  Oh,  of  course !  But  I 
read  the  name  of  '  Lord  Rathmore,'  and  I  wondered  who 
the  fellow  could  be  !  " 
18 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   PRESS    GALLERY 

The  old  days — Bohemian  members — Work  under  difficulties — Mr. 
Paul — Sir  Edward  Russell — Inaccuracies — "  Cookin'  porpoises  " — 
Speeches  reported — "  By  courtesy  " — I  am  "  incorrect" — Aurevoir 

WITH  the  exception  of  the  artist  of  Vanity  Fair,  I  was 
the  first  artist  who  troubled  to  live  among  the  Members 
of  Parliament  for  the  purpose  of  studying  and  drawing 
them ;  previous  to  this  artists  engaged  in  drawing 
the  members  worked  altogether  from  photographs — and 
sometimes  from  very  old  photographs,  too !  They 
placed  the  heads  on  imaginary  bodies — bodies,  I  should 
say,  they  imagined  would  tally  with  the  faces — and  trusted 
to  luck  for  a  complete  full-length  portrait. 

During  the  eighties  and  nineties,  certainly  the  most 
interesting  period  in  politics  of  our  time,  there  was  no 
more  entertaining  place  than  St.  Stephen's.  The  Fourth 
Party,  the  Grand  Old  Man,  the  Home  Rule  Bill,  Randolph 
Churchill's  rise  and  fall,  Bradlaugh,  Obstruction,  Parnell, 
Chamberlain,  the  Unionist  Camp,  excitement  followed 
excitement.  No  years  in  the  history  of  Parliament  were 
so  rich  in  political  incident,  and  no  personalities  more 
interesting  than  those  who  filled  the  stage. 

For  some  years  I  had  the  monopoly  of  illustrating 

Parliament,  not  only  for  Punchy  but  in  more  serious  and 

274 


THE  PRESS    GALLERY  275 

elaborate  work  for  The  Illustrated  London  News,  The 
Graphic,  The  Daily  Graphic,  Black  and  White,  and  other 
periodicals,  both  in  England  and  America.  I  gave  for 
four  years  an  elaborate  entertainment  on  the  platform 
entitled  "  The  Humours  of  Parliament,"  in  many  parts  of 
the  United  Kingdom,  in  America  and  in  the  Colonies ;  and 
all  this  time  I  was  a  member  of  the  Press  Gallery.  The 
pressmen  in  Parliament,  although  selected  from  journa- 
listic Bohemia,  have  numbered  among  them  some  of  the 
most  notable  men  of  literature,  including  Dickens ;  others 
have  since  become  famous  as  authors,  and  some  have 
made  their  mark  as  politicians.  Judges  have  sprung  from 
the  Press  Gallery  into  fame  and  fortune.  It  is  a  silent, 
hard-working,  and  most  interesting  community,  self- 
contained  and  self-respected,  with  its  own  laws,  its  own 
club,  and  wielding  a  power  of  its  own.  The  public  has 
little  idea  what  it  owes  to  the  Press  Gallery  nor  the 
members  either,  but  the  Government  has  every  reason 
to  be  grateful  to  that  exclusive  body  of  workers. 

That  the  reporters  are,  or  were,  a  truly  Bohemian 
body  of  men  there  is  no  denying.  If  not  in  habit,  they 
certainly  were  in  appearance.  A  letter  in  the  press 
written  by  an  old  ex-M.P.  deplored  this  fact,  and  dragged 
in  the  aesthetic  craze  then  so  much  to  the  fore  as  the  cause 
of  it.  Certainly  Mr.  Harold  Cox,  now  the  brilliant 
publicist,  did  wear  a  wideawake  hat,  and  velveteen  coat, 
and  salmon-coloured  tie.  But  he  was  not  alone  in 
discarding  the  tall  hat,  "  the  hall-mark  of  respectability," 
for  the  sake  of  comfort. 

Mr.  T.  P.  O'Connor  is,  no  doubt,  a  very  ardent 
Nationalist,  but  he  is  first  of  all  a  journalist,  and  although 
a  literary  journalist,  his  review  of  Parliamentary  ex- 
periences has  been  extremely  profitable  to  him,  and  was 


276 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


at  one  time  his  principal  source  of  income,  although  he 
was  never  in  the  Press  Gallery.  I  recollect  a  familiar 
scene  in  the  strangers'  smoking-room  in  the  eighties : 
T.  P.  O'Connor  seated  with  his  amanuensis,  dictating 


his  "  copy,"  describing  what  was  taking  place  upstairs. 
So  if  he  did  not  go  to  the  Press  Gallery,  he  brought  the 
Press  Gallery  to  him. 

On   the   other   hand   Mr.    Herbert   Paul,   unlike   his 
predecessor   at  Northampton,   Henry  Labouchere,   but 


THE  PRESS   GALLERY 


37? 


quite  as  much  a  Parliamentary  journalist,  was  in  the 
Press  Gallery  before  he  descended  to  become  a  Member 
of  Parliament.  In  the  Press  Gallery  he  was  not  an 
ordinary  reporter  taking  down  the  proceedings  of  the 
House,  in  the  same  perfunctory  manner  as  a  meeting  at 
Caxton  Hall  or  Cannon  Street  Hotel  might  be  chronicled. 
He  was  a  leader-writer,  and  composed  his  political  lectures 
as  the  debate  proceeded. 


A  CORNER  OF  THE  PRESS  GALLERY. 


It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  become  a  member  of  the  Press 
Gallery,  and  even  when  that  privilege  is  granted  it  is  no 
easy  matter  to  get  into  the  gallery  itself.  Sixty  stone 
steps  have  to  be  climbed  to  reach  it,  twenty  more  up  to 
the  writing-room,  and  thirty  more  to  reach  the  dining- 
room.  The  select  committee  (1894),  presided  over  by 
Mr.  Herbert  Gladstone,  to  consider  the  accommodation 
of  the  House,  refused  a  lift  to  the  reporters  (in  spite  of 
the  many  lifts  the  reporters  give  the  members),  and  the 


278  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

poor  pressmen  have  still  those  hundred  and  ten  stone  steps 
to  climb,  more  than  once  every  day,  to  attend  to  their 
duties  in  the  House.  One  of  their  number  wrote  thus 
at  the  time  :  "  The  popular  conception  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary journalist  is  a  smart,  active  young  man — always 
young — with  phenomenal  powers  of  endurance.  But 
the  real  article  is,  more  often  than  not,  a  middle-aged 
man  who  has  risen  to  his  present  position  after  years  of 
toiling  and  moiling  in  other  branches  of  press  work; 
and,  seasoned  though  he  may  be  to  hardship  and  incon- 
venience, his  physical  powers  are  not  beyond  the  reach 
of  exhaustion.  The  flight  of  stone  steps  giving  access 
from  New  Palace  Yard  to  the  precincts  of  the  Reporters' 
Gallery  is  steep  and  difficult  of  negotiation,  even  to  those 
in  the  prime  of  life  ;  to  the  old  and  infirm,  or  to  those  who 
are  *  fat  and  scant  of  breath,'  it  is  a  constant  terror." 

The  Reporters'  Gallery,  like  the  House  itself,  is  not 
large  enough  to  acommodate  all  those  who  have  a  right 
to  sit  there.  There  is  a  row  of  boxes  in  front  allotted 
to  the  principal  representatives  of  the  papers,  and  a 
couple  of  funny-looking  pews  at  either  corner,  also 
reserved  for  special  papers  or  news  agencies ;  but  the 
mass  of  gentlemen  of  the  press  have  to  sit  at  the  back, 
at  a  narrow  piece  of  wood  as  a  desk.  Between  this  desk 
and  the  boxes  is  a  narrow  space,  so  that  any  one  passing 
sweeps  away  the  reporter's  copy,  or  the  artist's  sketches, 
with  his  arm  or  coat-tails.  The  reporter's  view  is  also 
continually  blocked  by  the  different  reporters  privileged 
to  sit  in  the  boxes  moving  in  and  out ;  by  the  messenger 
going  backwards  and  forwards  for  copy ;  and  when  there 
is  any  excitement  on,  there  is  positively  not  even  standing- 
room.  I  have  often  had  to  kneel  during  a  debate,  pushed 
about  and  trodden  upon  by  fellow-workers  struggling, 


THE  PRESS  GALLERY  279 

like  myself,  to  hear  a  word  or  see  a  speaker.  The  amiable 
official  in  charge  of  the  gallery  has  imperative  orders  to 
allow  no  one  to  stand  ;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  the  gangway 
is  blocked,  and  the  scene  of  confusion  and  the  fighting  to 
get  into  the  Reporters'  Gallery  by  those  authorised  to 
be  there  is  a  disgrace  to  all  responsible  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  House. 

I  may  frankly  say  that  the  House  itself,  at  any  rate, 
the  Gallery,  is  not  a  place  adapted  for  work  that  really 
needs  the  conditions  of  quiet  study  or  the  seclusion  of 
an  editorial  room.  The  poor  pressmen  are  packed  like 
sardines  in  a  box,  in  the  gallery,  kneeling,  crouching, 
trodden  upon,  knocked  about  and  otherwise  inconveni- 
enced, by  the  reporters  pushing  their  way  past  into 
their  little  boxes  between  the  narrow  little  desk  against 
the  wall  and  the  delectable  row  of  little  stalls  portioned 
out  to  the  favoured  few.  It  was  at  one  of  these  desks 
against  the  wall  (if  one  can  call  a  narrow  piece  of  wood 
six  inches  wide  a  desk),  that  Mr.  Paul  sat,  and  in  truth 
he  became  a  very  irritable  member  of  the  gallery  whilst 
he  was  at  work.  I  fear  that  I,  and  not  a  few  others, 
in  making  our  way  past,  unavoidably  knocked  off  his 
manuscript,  and  gave  some  reason  for  the  acidity  in  his 
able  remarks  contributed  to  The  Daily  News. 

A  well-known  journalist  of  a  different  type,  Sir  Edward 
Russell,  who  became  the  editor  of  The  Liverpool  Post, 
and  in  consequence  left  the  House  of  Commons  and 
London,  whenever  he  came  back  used  to  spend  his  holiday 
in  his  old  hunting-ground,  the  Press  Gallery  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  It  apparently  struck  him  that  he  could 
not  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  for  he  became  a 
Member  of  Parliament  and  studied  the  House  from  the 
benches,  instead  of  from  the  Press  Gallery.  Eventually 


28o 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 


he  found  he  did  not  like  it  so  well,  and  retired.  There 
is  a  unanimous  opinion  among  men  who,  like  myself,  have 
had  long  experience  of  the  House  :  The  ones  who  look 
on  see  more  of  the  Parliamentary  game  than  the  members 
in  the  seats  below. 


MR.   HERBERT  PAUL. 


Visitors  to  the  House  of  Commons,  who  sit  over  the 
clock  in  the  large  galleries  facing  up  the  House,  see 
directly  opposite  to  them  a  gallery,  under  the  ladies'  grille, 
in  which  is  seated  a  row  of  gentlemen  writing.  That  is 
the  Reporters'  Gallery.  The  idle  stranger  gets  a  much 
better  view  of  the  House  than  the  busy  reporter,  and  the 
latter  never  sees  the  Speaker.  For  some  unknown  reason 


THE  PRESS  GALLERY  281 

the  press  representatives  are  not  allowed  into  the  House 
until  after  Prayers,  and  the  Speaker  ha?  taken  the  chair. 
The  chair  being  covered  at  the  top  and  having,  in  addition, 
a  projecting  sounding-board,  the  Speaker  is  completely 
hidden  from  the  view  of  those  in  the  gallery.  Only 
half  the  front  benches  can  be  seen  from  it,  and  only  the 
tops  of  the  heads  of  members  speaking  at  the  table.  The 
Press  Gallery  extends  four  boxes  down  on  either  side,  and 
from  these  points  pressmen  can  see  more  of  one  side. 
When  the  gallery  was  built  these  side  boxes  did  not  exist, 
but  it  was  soon  found  necessary  to  add  to  the  number  of 
seats  in  the  gallery. 

The  reporters,  with  the  exception  of  the  few  in  the 
boxes,  work,  as  I  have  already  explained,  under  the 
greatest  difficulty.  They  are  cramped  for  space.  They 
have  the  worst  place  in  the  whole  House  for  seeing,  and 
it  is  at  times  impossible  to  hear  in  the  Reporters'  Gallery 
what  is  being  said.  The  rushing  in  and  out  of  change 
reporters  taking  their  turns,  of  officials  for  copy,  and  the 
low,  muttering,  conversational  House  of  Commons  style 
of  speaking,  continue  to  render  the  task  of  the  reporter 
most  difficult.  Small  wonder,  then,  that  inaccurate 
reports  sometimes  find  their  way  into  the  papers.  But 
it  must  be  admitted  that  the  Irish  members,  who  have 
not  adopted  the  conversational  tone  of  speaking,  are 
frequently  misunderstood  by  the  English  members,  as 
well  as  by  the  English  reporters.  Their  pronunciation 
of  the  English  language  is  so  peculiar,  their  Irish  accent 
so  puzzling,  that  mistakes  are  inevitable.  For  instance, 
a  member  for  an  Irish  constituency,  in  speaking  against 
a  tax  being  placed  on  margarine,  a  substitute  for  butter, 
objected  in  the  following  words :  "  Misther  Spaker, 
sor  ;  sor,  I  object  to  the  taxing  of  margarine.  Margarine 


382  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

is  largely  used  in  Oireland  for  cookin'  porpoises  (laughter). 
Oi  repate,  sor,  for  cookin'  porpoises  (loud  laughter).  Oi 
don't  see  what  honourable  gentlemen  opposite  mean  by 
their  laughter,  because  in  Oireland  the  payple  use 
margarine  for  cookin'  porpoises." 

Had  there  been  no  laughter,  the  hon.  gentleman  from 
Ireland  would  have  been  very  indignant  if  the  Saxon 
journalist  had  reported  him  as  he  had  spoken,  "porpoises" 
in  place  of  "  purposes  "  ! 

Mr.  MacDonagh,  in  his  entertaining  book,  Irish  Life 
and  Character,  refers  to  Mr.  Swift  MacNeill's  misfortunes 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  reporters  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  but  fails  to  point  out,  as  I  have  here  ventured 
to,  that  the  accent  of  Irish  members  is  responsible  for 
the  mistakes.  Here  are  a  few  examples : 

In  the  course  of  a  speech,  Mr.  Swift  MacNeill  quoted 
the  judicial  declaration  of  the  late  Baron  Dowse  that 
"  the  resident  magistrates  could  no  more  state  a  case 
than  they  could  write  a  Greek  ode,"  and  it  was  deliciously 
given  by  a  reporter  as :  "  The  resident  magistrates  could 
no  more  state  a  case  than  they  could  ride  a  Greek  goat !  " 
Baron  Dowse  must  have  immensely  enjoyed  this  amusing 
rendering  of  his  declaration.  He  stated  in  the  course 
of  a  judgment  in  an  action  for  libel  against  a  newspaper 
arising  out  of  an  incorrect  report,  that  once  in  a  speech 
in  the  House  of  Commons  he  had  quoted  Tennyson's 
line :  "  Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 
Cathay,"  and  read  in  a  newspaper  next  day  that  he  had 
edified  the  House  with  this  statement:  "Better  fifty 
years  of  true  love  than  a  circus  in  Bombay." 

Mr.  Swift  MacNeill  figured  in  another  amusing  case 
of  mishearing  in  the  Reporters'  Gallery.  He  once  com- 
plained of  having  been  roughly  treated  by  the  con- 


THE  PRESS  GALLERY  283 

stabulary  while  attending  some  evictions  in  his  constitu- 
ency in  Donegal.  "  But,"  said  the  honourable  member, 
"  I  took  measures  to  put  a  stop  to  this  conduct.  When- 
ever I  was  hustled  or  knocked  about  by  a  policeman  I 
simply  chalked  him,  and  by  that  means  was  able  to 
identify  him  afterwards."  This  was  rendered,  "  When- 
ever I  was  hustled  or  knocked  about  by  a  policeman  / 
simply  choked  him  !  " 

Members  are  more  anxious  to  be  reported  than  to  be 
listened    to.     I    remember    once    during    the    all-night 
sittings  a  formal  protest  was  made  about  daybreak,  by  an 
obstructing,    garrulous    member,    that    there    were    no 
reporters  present,  or  if  there  were  it  was  too  late  to  have 
the  speeches  reported.     There  is  nothing  stings  a  member 
more  than  to  be  bracketed  with  the  duffers  in  the  follow- 
ing way :    "  Sir  Gilbert  Snooks,  Mr.  Middleditt,  Mr. 
Yawndyke,   Mr.    Snippers,   and   General   Shafand   then 
continued  the  discussion."     This  will  not  do  for  Mr. 
Yawndyke,  so  up  he  trots  to  the  Members'  Gallery  and 
slyly  creeps  towards  the  end   adjoining  the  reporters. 
Here  he  supplies  the  reporters  with  a  copy  of  his  speech, 
which   may   be   politely   accepted   and   subsequently   as 
politely  laid  to  rest  in  the  waste-paper  basket.     On  some 
papers  the  heads  of  the  staff  have  a  table  of  the  length  of 
speech  each   speaker  is  to  have,    and  this   is  adhered  to 
regardless  of  the  matter  or  importance  of  the  various 
speeches.     The  scale  is  regulated  much  in  the  same  way 
as  are  handicaps   at  golf.     There  are   "  scratch  men," 
reported  in  full ;  men  with  five  handicap,  a  column ; 
with  ten,  as  many  lines ;  and  so  on.     Certain  papers  have 
their  favourites.     The  proprietor  or  editor   may  have 
some  young  politician  under  his  wing,  and  will  give  his 
utterances  a  column  and  the  whole  of  the  really  good 


284  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

speakers  a  paragraph.  Small  provincial  papers  naturally 
report  their  own  member  in  full,  and  his  constituents  are 
therefore  under  the  impression  that  his  speech,  delivered 
to  an  empty  House  (not  reported  in  a  London  paper) 
was  the  most  important  oration  of  the  whole  debate. 

Artists  in  the  Reporters'  Gallery  are  really  worse  off 
than  even  the  writers.  Reporters  have  only  to  hear  ; 
they  need  not  see — in  fact  they  must  not  raise  their  eyes 
from  their  paper.  But  artists  must  see,  and  whilst 
reporters  are  given  front  seats,  artists  are  shoved  behind, 
sometimes  with  two  or  three  reporters  standing  in  front 
of  them.  For  that  reason  the  Reporters'  Gallery,  as  I 
have  already  explained,  is  of  little  use  to  them,  and  it  is 
necessary  to  get  a  closer  view  of  members  in  the  Lobby, 
or  in  the  strangers'  seats  under  the  gallery.  But  it  is 
against  the  rules  to  make  a  note  when  in  the  latter  seats, 
and  almost  impossible  to  make  a  sketch  in  the  Lobby. 

But  while  those  who  use  the  pen  to  portray  M.P.s  as 
they  appear  to  the  reporter  are  in  such  danger  of  being 
called  over  the  coals,  those  who  use  the  pencil  for 
chronicling  their  impressions  are  allowed  a  far  larger 
measure  of  licence.  Here  is  one  of  the  protests  from  the 
Press  Gallery,  published  apropos  : 

"  We  are  told  that  journalists  are  admitted  to  the 
House  l  by  courtesy.'  That  is  an  assumption  which 
cannot  be  maintained  in  these  days,  for  everybody  knows 
that  if  the  newspapers  were  by  common  consent  to  cease 
publishing  reports  of  debates  in  Parliament,  they  would 
be  implored  by  the  House  of  Commons  to  withdraw 
this  ban  upon  the  loquacity  of  the  Legislature.  But  in 
the  present  case  there  is  no  need  to  discuss  the  relations 
between  the  House  of  Commons  and  the  press.  The 
House  has  taken  no  action  against  The  Daily  Chronicle. 


THE  PRESS  GALLERY  285 

It  is  simply  the  offended  taste  of  Mr.  Erskine  (the 
Sergeant-at-Arms)  which  has  issued  a  decree,  supported, 
it  is  true,  by  Mr.  Peel  (then  Speaker),  but  with  less  than 
Mr.  Peel's  customary  judgment.  For  what  does  this 
decree  imply  ?  That  any  printed  remark  which  the 
Sergeant-at-Arms  considers  derogatory  to  the  dignity  of 
a  member  is  to  be  visited  by  the  exclusion  of  the  writer 
from  the  Press  Gallery  and  the  Lobby  of  the  House. 
Does  Mr.  Erskine  take  the  trouble  to  study  the  caricatures 
of  members  in  Punch  ?  If  he  thinks  the  description  of 
Mr.  T.  W.  Russell's  voice  as  '  rasping '  an  intolerable 
offence,  what  is  his  opinion  of  Mr.  Harry  Furniss's  exag- 
geration of  Mr.  Mundella's  nose,  or  of  the  same  artist's 
picture  of  Mr.  Gladstone  as  a  dog  catching  flies  ?  Punch, 
indeed,  is  a  perpetual  offender  against  the  aesthetic  canons 
which  Mr.  Erskine  has  set  up,  and  which  he  expects  us 
to  fall  down  and  worship.  Will  Mr.  Harry  Furniss  be 
banished  from  the  Press  Gallery  ?  We  all  know  that  such 
an  arbitrary  proceeding  is  impossible,  but  it  ought  to  be 
made  equally  impossible  for  the  Sergeant-at-Arms  to  sit 
in  judgment  on  the  Parliamentary  representative  of  The 
Daily  Chronicle,  who  has  just  as  much  right  to  describe 
the  peculiarities  of  Mr.  T.  W.  Russell  as  Mr.  Furniss  has 
to  caricature  Mr.  Gladstone." 

Apropos  of  this  privilege  of  mine,  a  daily  paper  ques- 
tioned the  right  of  the  Parliamentary  sketcher  to  exist 
at  all,  and  I  suppose  the  opinion  expressed  is  shared  by 
many  members  of  both  Houses.  Perhaps  our  days  are 
numbered.  Here  is  the  way  the  leader  I  refer  to  winds 
up: 

"  Much,  however,  may  be  forgiven  to  the  unhappy 
sketcher  who  is  not  allowed  to  exhibit  his  professional 
implement — the  pencil ;  who  cannot  even  transfer  his 


386  MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 

sketch  to  the  thumbnail  or  the  shirt-cuff.  Probably 
there  are  many  members  of  the  Lower  House  who  would 
like,  in  this  matter,  to  be  in  the  position  of  the  Lords. 
Why  should  the  Peers  have  privileges  which  the  more 
or  less  faithful  Commons  do  not  enjoy  ?  We  see  here 
the  material  for  a  question  in  the  House  on  the  part,  say, 
of  Mr.  Keir  Hardie  or  some  other  legislator  with  a  striking 
appearance.  It  is  hard  to  be  made  to  stand,  week  after 
week,  in  an  artistic  pillory.  Some  day,  perhaps,  public 
opinion  may  decide  that  the  person  of  the  individual 
taxpayer  is  sacred,  and  that  it  shall  be  free  from  the 
assaults  alike  of  the  pencil  and  of  the  kodak.  Then,  in- 
deed, will  the  last  state  of  the  sketcher  be  worse  than 
the  first,  while  his  devices  for  evading  the  regulations  will 
have  become  more  subtle  and  perhaps  more  reckless. 
After  all,  we  suppose  the  world  does  not  exist  entirely 
for  the  benefit  of  the  gentlemen  who  pass  their  time  in 
*  taking  off  '  their  fellow-citizens." 

Until  I  read  the  last  paragraph  I  was  under  the  im- 
pression it  did ! 

I  have  not  forgotten  this  gentle  reminder,  so,  kind  reader 
— at  least  I  trust  you  are  kind  and  forgiving — I  say  au 
revoir,  and  take  myself  off. 


Printed  by  Haull,  Watson  &  Vinty,  Ld.t  London  and  Aybsbury. 


